


Wolfgirl In Braavos

by swimmingfox



Series: Wolfgirl [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: & Sandor & Arya, & awkward sex scenes, Actually the Ed Sheeran tune is pretty good, And his 1950s crooners, Angst, Basically because I love writing Sandor, Because this is what happens when I'm ill in bed, Braavos, But who the fuck knows which one. I don't, Did I say rain?, F/M, Fighting, Fluff, Gendrya - Freeform, I'm not making any promises, It's like Coupling meets The Real World but in Braavos, Kissing in the Rain, Mostly hopefully fun and silly, Nonsense, Plus Major Tunes (and Ed Sheeran), Podrya, Rain, Sandor loves his Tom Waits, Sandor's potty mouth, Soup, WiB Theme Time Radio Hour, You know you love the slow-burn really, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 77,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Wolfgirl. It follows straight on!</p><p>The motley crew of Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Arya and Sansa Stark and Podrick Payne rock up in Braavos looking for safe harbour. Sandor Clegane is not too far behind them, realising he has made a terrible mistake. Tee hee. Some hilarity and probably quite a lot of shipping in store, all in surprisingly damp, cold Braavos. Honestly, it's like bloody SCUNTHORPE or something.</p><p>It's rather AU, having veered wildly off-course halfway through Wolfgirl.</p><p>NB Warnings for Sandor's and Arya's filthy mouths!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somewhere Beyond The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> **Welcome to Wolfgirl in Braavos! It follows on pretty directly from Wolfgirl, which you should probably read again, ah haha, but to RECAP (deep breath):**
> 
>  
> 
> **The Hound picked up Arya running away from the Brotherhood, and most of the HBO show stuff took place in an expanded version, with extra drinking and bickering. Then JAIME LANNISTER and SANSA turned up instead of Brienne and Podrick, Jaime having decided to stick to his vow to Catelyn Stark and whisking Sansa away from King’s Landing. A weird, extra-bickery quartet continued through a fight with Mountain Clans – Arya getting an axe in her leg – with minor notes and aromas of SanSan, and a beastly fight with Gregor Clegane at an inn at Saltpans, in which Brienne and Podrick MIRACULOUSLY turned up to kill Gregor and save the day.**
> 
>  
> 
> **The Hound was wounded by his brother and was pretty mad about Brienne killing Gregor and him not doing it. He basically had an existential crisis, what with now being the only Clegane and not really having a purpose anymore and, being looked after by Elder Brother at Saltpans Castle, decided to stay put and go to Quiet Isle. Leaving Jaime, Brienne and Podrick to accompany Sansa and Arya to relative safety in Braavos. EXCEPT THAT HE COULDN’T. Because he got a hint that maybe Sansa DIDN’T think he was a gross old burnt dog just as she was leaving. What with the kiss on the cheek and calling him by name and the hand on her heart thing she did on the boat as they were leaving. And to be honest, he is mad as anything about Arya too, in a love/hate/father/friend/mentor sort of way. So he decides to go after them after all. HOORAY!**
> 
>  
> 
> PS Arya is now miraculously aged up to 14 or so. And Sansa is 17. Hooray!  
> PPS Another warning for Sandor's filthy language from the off. Get that man's mouth washed out.

**Sandor**

The smell is worse than a woman’s unwashed cunt. There are rotten timbers, dank with the sea. There’s the vomit bucket, slopping in a corner. Old wine on my breath. And the smell coming from my side, which is worse than all of them.

In all the sweet seven hells, my wound hurts. Hurts every time the boat moves. Another scar left by my brother, though at least it’ll be under armour and not painted on my face for all the world and his whore to see. I’ve been putting salt water on it, boiled when I can get up off this cabin bed, but it still doesn’t look good.

Never been on a boat for long. Sailed up the coast once or twice as Tywin Lannister’s man, laughing at soldiers chucking their dinners up, but they were never for more than one night at most. I’m not laughing any more. I’ve been on here three nights, and the waves aren’t getting any calmer. Stomach’s shot.

The longer I spend on here, Westeros peeling off my back like sunburnt flesh, the more I wonder what in the hells I’m doing. Three fucking days I waited at Saltpans, after watching that trade boat sail off into the sunrise. The other boats were going to Tyr and Pentos, not Braavos. Three fucking days. Elder Brother convinced the old turkeyneck up at the castle to harbour me for longer, until a boat came that would take me in the right direction. The monk probably thought he could talk me back round into going with him to the Quiet Isle. Praying my arse off morn, noon and night with a load of other sorry bastards who have boiled cabbage-breath. He tried his damndest, but my mind had sealed tight on that flame hair, a little candle-flick of it against the sky. 

Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe it’d been a trick of that early sun, sparking off the mast. Maybe it hadn’t been her hand, resting on her chest, lifted up into the air towards me. Maybe I’d blinked.

My head bumps against the damp wall, adding to the cold ache made by the wine I’ve been drinking, and trying not to think of Stranger. I sold him. The only way to get coin. My bastard black shadow, always there, as good as sleep or the sword at my side. He looked at me as I handed the reins over to the tallest man who dared take him, and there was fury and disbelief and a question in that black and white eye – _you’re leaving me, after all I’ve done for you_? And I’d had to whack him on the back and stumble off before I cried over a fucking animal.

My life for a horse. It’d better be worth it. If I ever find them that is – three days behind could mean anything. Could mean I’ll never find them, her and – _her_. Well, they come as a pair now. The tall one who has peeled a layer off my heart, good as a Bolton, and the short-arse who has got into me like a fleck of grit under my eyelid. 

The bloody pair of them. 

***

**Arya**

‘It’s so freezing,’ you say, for the fourth time, though no one is listening any more. ‘Podrick.’ You kick him in the shoulder. ‘Aren’t you freezing?’

Podrick is leading his horse along through the crowds, or attempting to, as you sit on her. She doesn’t seem to want to go with him. His cheeks are as red as beetroot and his shoulders glisten with the rain. ‘Yes, my lady.’ 

‘Stop calling me that.’ You cannot quite imagine him wearing anything else. Even as a little boy, he probably had that boiled leather doublet sewn all the way up to his neck, blushing and saying ‘yes, my lady’ to every bloody thing.

‘Sorry,’ he says, but you still hear the ‘my lady’ come out softly, like a nervous tick that he can’t help.

It’s uncomfortable, riding with your smashed-up leg. You have to stick it out a bit, which makes it really hard to stay balanced. You start thinking about wearing a dress, a skirt – something clean. You have decided that you hate these disgusting grey clothes more than anything. You eye Sansa, who rides on her horse, weaving through the crowds, wide-eyed at the women holding up fruits and cloth. She has a thin cloak, made of some sort of cloth that is like spiderwebs and fragile leaves, over her hair. Rain sits on it like dewdrops. You refused to wear one, even though Jaime said everyone was going to have to work on disguising themselves a bit.

Braavos is full of people. Most of them have the same almond-coloured skin that Syrio had, though it is a great trading harbour, and there have been many other sorts of people, too. Sailors with skin as dark as horse chestnuts, and others pale and red-haired, small and tall and thin and fat and all making so much noise in lots of different tongues. You can hardly hear any Common Tongue. You try to remember the Braavosi words that your dancing master would flick out at you along with his sword. As well as the two you know very well, you think, fingering the coin tucked into your belt.

Even so, with all these people here, the five of you do stick out, like your stupid leg. Jaime, with his metal hand. Brienne, the tallest and broadest woman in the world - and in armour, too. Podrick, looking like he is going to faint at any moment. And Sansa, even with her head covered. The group should stick out more, though, you think, even though you have been trying to forget about him, imagining him and Stranger moving through these crushed market crowds like night’s own warrior. Just so you could give him hells for telling you that Braavos was a warm place.

It should have been six.

***

**Jaime**

Braavos is as I imagined. Teeming with traders, and bloody damp. Westerosi autumns have never seemed so tempting. 

It is not one land but many, small islands linked by canals choked with boats. Another canal snakes above our heads – I have heard of this, the sweetwater river, carrying water to be drunk as the lagoon is so briny. It certainly smells of fish and salt here, much heavier than the breezes at King’s Landing.

There are no trees, just many buildings made of dark stone and made darker because of the rain. We stayed in the moored boat for two days whilst Brienne and I took in turns to investigate options for safe harbour. Turns out there aren’t many. Sellswords breeding like rats, and everywhere looks dangerous. 

After the second night and an increasingly suspicious-eyed captain, Brienne and I agreed we’d need to just go. And this is what we do now, a train of Westerosi, three of us one foot and two on horseback, trying to ignore the looks we are flung by market sellers and loitering pickpockets.

Brienne’s hand hovers a hair’s breadth from her sword as she stares staunchly ahead. There’s a sheen of cold rain on her forehead that makes her look polished. That oath she made to Lady Catelyn probably rattling round and round in her skull like a septa’s prayer. Well, I suppose she’s not the only one who’s found themselves bound by an oath to the Starks. I think of Cersei, for a heartbeat, and see her lip curling off her teeth, an asp-noise at what I’ve done.

‘It’s freezing,’ Arya says, for the two dozenth time. She’s done nothing but complain about the weather since we docked. Her sister, on the other hand, has said very little, a look on her face as if she is concentrating on a far-away sound. I am fairly sure that I know who makes both girls act as they do, though I don’t give him too much thought. By the end, Clegane had worn a wounded-dog look that hadn’t simply meant his side. The man needed rest.

I turn around. ‘My apologies for not taking us to Meereen, in that case,’ I say. ‘I hear it’s terribly clement there. If a little unforgiving for those who aren’t free men.’

Arya gives me a look as good as a clamp with a neck-iron before her eyes flicker behind me and her face changes.

I know her well enough to move quickly, and as I turn my good hand is on my sword-hilt, my other arm raised to hook around the man’s neck. He’s small and the grip is easy.

We’ve all been together, in various collections, for so long now that there’s an instinctive shifting together. Brienne has brought Sansa’s horse round and has her sword ready. Podrick holds Arya’s reins close. We’re surrounded by people bustling past, and the position of the horses and Brienne and Podrick mean that not many can see my sword at his side. 

‘You think I keep anything worth stealing where a little flea like you might be able to reach it?’ I say in a low voice.

The man’s eyes bulge like boiled eggs as my arm tightens around his throat. I rather wish I could speak more than five words of Braavosi.

But then he surprises me, the words emerging thickly but unmistakeably Westerosi. ‘Not a flea,’ he says. ‘A spider.’

There’s a moment where our eyes are very close, and I can smell the man’s breath, onion and nettle.

I hear Sansa take a little breath, understanding just an eyeblink before I do.

I stare at him. ‘Go on.’

‘He knows you come here. I take you to safe place.’ He puts his hand out, his eyes asking me to allow him to move. I loosen my grip.

‘Jaime.’ Brienne’s voice, quiet and urgent. ‘We need to move.’ 

The man fumbles in the baggy pocket of his breeches and brings out a tiny piece of paper, the perfect length of a raven’s leg. He holds it out and I nod to Podrick, trying to ignore the irritation again of not having enough hands to hold a man hostage and – well, do anything else. 

Podrick quickly takes the paper, reads it and looks up at me. ‘Lord Varys,’ he says.

***

**Sandor**

I wake up thinking dogs are gnawing at my side, crunching on bone, shove myself halfway up the bed, covered in sweat. Above me, on deck, there are ship-helps shouting at each other.

Starting to wish I’d fucking stayed. The crossing’s been worse than most battles, waves with a blood-vengeance, the whole damned ship stinking of people’s insides. Maybe cabbages wouldn’t have been so bad.

We’ve been half a day longer than we should have, because of the weather. Captain just gave me curses as good as I’d dealt him and said I was welcome to jump onto another ship if I saw one passing. Greasy-mouthed bastard. 

I’ve drifted in and out of sleep, dreams of red-haired sea-girls with teeth sharp as knives, of wolves skinning themselves alive, of my father hanging from a rope, of nothing good. 

More shouts, above me. I take my hand away from my wound, listen properly. 

Land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A song for every chapter heading!
> 
> [Somewhere Beyond The Sea (La Mer) sung by Bobby Darin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8OlDPqYBLw), a request to the DJ from Sandor, who will listen to it whilst continuing to puke in his little cabin.


	2. Raining In My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potty-mouth warnings as much for Arya as Sandor, tee hee.

**Sandor**

Fucking hells. Biggest fucking warrior I’ve ever seen. I stare up at him, at his grey armour, which has gone white and copper-green from being outside for so long. At the way he stands, legs apart, looking like he can swallow everything whole, or like he’s about to piss on everyone. Shield in one hand, broken sword held in the other, helm masking his face, which is in the clouds anyway. 

We sail under him, under the massive stone man who marks the entrance to the first Free City I’ve ever set eyes on, and into a wide, black stretch of water. And then all I can see are roofs and walls and domes and towers, hundreds and thousands of them in red and gold and grey, stretching to the end of the world.

So this is Braavos, I think, rain on my face.

**Jaime**

I have to hand it to Varys. I’d always suspected that the man – well, eunuch, if we’re to be precise – had more up those floor-sweeping sleeves of his than he let on, but somehow I’d always thought it was in favour of my father. 

Instead I find that the Master of Whispers knows we’re here – probably before even we did – and has arranged a place for us to stay.

‘It’s dark,’ says Arya. ‘And damp.’

And not helped by the five of us standing in there, the rain steaming off us. Six if you count the squat little man who led us here, gabbling in Braavosi with a few short words in the Common Tongue. We followed him through what felt like half the city, down alleyways and up some cobbled steps rather treacherous for the horses, before he finally led us to a house above one of the waterways. It is tall but very thin – four storeys with only two rooms on each floor. It’s true that there is an unusual smell – old apples, dead mice – but it could be a lot worse.

‘How do we know to trust him?’ Brienne, walking around, arms folded.

I eye the man, who stands silent now, his hands clasped in front of him as he watches Arya hop around on her crutch. He’s no warrior – just a nimble fellow in need of a decent bath and a few chews of mint-leaf to sort that breath out. ‘It’s true that we only have his word,’ I say. ‘But he did risk me cutting his throat open.’

‘ _Varys_. How do we know to trust Lord Varys?’

I look up at the wooden roof-beams. ‘I can’t really think of a good reason for him to give us this place if he wanted us all dead.’

‘Perhaps so that anyone who wants to kill us knows exactly where to find us,’ whispers Brienne, as loud as a box of adders.

‘I always thought he was a creep,’ says Arya, digging the end of her crutch into a dusty corner.

‘He was always very kind to me,’ says Sansa, still with that careful, forlorn face she’s been wearing since we left Westeros, clutching her elbows.

I raise my eyebrows at Brienne. ‘I’m inclined to trust him. Anyway, it’s not like we were on our way to palatial rooms anywhere else, was it? We’ll just have to remain on our guard.’ I speak a little more lightly than I feel, just to needle Brienne more than anything else. I do so enjoy that clenched jaw of hers. 

She glares at me. ‘Fine. We’ll have to take shifts.’

‘Fine,’ I say, and turn to Podrick. ‘Let’s go down and get those horses unsaddled, shall we?’

**Arya**

When Jaime Lannister ordered you about before, at least the Hound was there to answer back. Now Jaime thinks he’s in charge, the king of you all, even though he’s only got one hand and fucked his sister. And Brienne isn’t much better. She speaks so kindly to you both, like you’re little babies, and you try to imagine her spitting or cursing, saying _cunt_ and _fuck_ and _bitch_. Right now, she’s with Sansa, deciding who is to sleep in which room, probably talking about bedsheets and making Podrick blush more.

‘What are we going to do here?’ You are kicking the table leg in the big kitchen room, which has purple-painted walls, ovens and big, blackened pots in a corner.

‘Staying alive is the initial plan,’ says Jaime, eyeing your leg. You have been kicking the table for some time.

You sigh. ‘So we just sit around? Hiding?’

Jaime taps his fingers lightly on the table. ‘You’ve got a leg that could do with a lot more healing. But you could still train, if you wanted to. There’s plenty to be finding out, too, carefully and quietly. If I know anything from Varys, I know that he has eyes everywhere, and that we can learn plenty about Westeros from this side of the Narrow Sea. And I’m wondering how long my gold will last. I might have to find another way of getting coin.’ He looks a little blank.

‘I thought you pissed money,’ you say.

‘Arya,’ says Sansa as she comes into the room, though her heart doesn’t really seem in it. She’s mostly resigned to your coarse mouth now. You don’t care. If there’s one thing you learnt from the Hound, it was honesty. 

Jaime gives an idle smile. ‘My _father_ pisses money. But he’s probably not very happy with me these days.’

You think about reminding him what an idiot his father is, having had you as his cup-bearer for so long, a Stark right under his nose, but there’s a little sour thoughtfulness to his look which stops you. ‘How will you get money?’ you ask. ‘I bet you’ve never earned a single silver coin in your life.’ 

‘I’ll work something out,’ he says, not more than a murmur.

Brienne ducks her head as she comes into the room, Podrick following. 

‘Or perhaps we’ll just put Podrick to good use,’ Jaime says. 

Podrick looks at him with his arms full of bedsheets, that stupid, willing look on his plain face. ‘My lord?’

‘I’ve heard you’re rather skilled at one or two things that earn good money,’ Jaime says, with another lazy half-smile.

Brienne looks between them both, frowning.

‘What does that mean?’ you say. ‘What is he good at?’

‘Nothing at all, my lady,’ says Podrick, who has turned the colour of the walls, before fleeing the room.

**Sandor**

Chaos. I push past people shouting in different tongues, all of them like madmen gabbling, holding things in my face, loaves and flagons and baskets of fish and a marrow as a big as a drowned corpse’s belly.

I stink of fish, so at least I fit in. We’d come into the foreigner’s harbour, and the captain put me into a fucking cupboard, behind barrels of salted squid and brownfish, sitting low and holding my breath, making my wound hurt like a bastard. It had made me wonder how the others got past them, until I remembered that their ship was Braavosi and they’d have skipped that part.

How the hells will I find them. The place is bewildering – not bound by castle walls like King’s Landing, but streets and streets, shooting away from each other like veins on leaves. Makes my eyes hurt. And this fucking rain itches.

At least there’s one thing I recognise. Men belching, flagons, whores looking me up and then down twice as quickly, story of my fucking life. 

An inn.

***

**Jaime**

Even though we spent rather a long time on the road together, it feels a little strange to be under the same exceedingly small roof as we are. At Harrenhall and King’s Landing, our chambers were in far reaches of the castles, acres of corridors between us, practically different kingdoms. And now we are sharing the same space – all of us.

The girls have retired to bed, and Podrick too. It feels a little worryingly like Brienne and I are the mother and father of the whole enterprise. I try not to think about being a father too much. It’s something that always felt out of reach, knowing that those children were mine and yet never being able to treat them as such. Like precious jewels behind glass. 

Brienne is staring at the fire that Podrick made fierce before he left us. The glow making her golden, bronzed. A subtle shine on her cheekbone.

‘What are you thinking about?’ I say.

She glances up. ‘Nothing.’

‘That’s a very serious face for nothing.’

She gazes at the fire a little longer, a long, quiet breath emerging. ‘My father.’ She purses her lips. ‘I wonder if he is well, that’s all. It’s going to be a while before I see him again.’

Fathers. I am one, and I am not one, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that I _have_ one. I can practically feel his lion’s breath on my neck. ‘I expect so,’ I say, rather quietly. ‘You didn’t know your mother?’

‘She died when I was young. I have little memory of her. I suppose that’s partly why -’ she glances at me. ‘Why I’m doing all this. To honour another mother’s memory. They are old enough to cherish her, and remember her.’ Her voice is soft-shined. It may be the first time she has said something so open. ‘And yours?’

‘Oh, she died giving birth to Tyrion.’ I speak lightly, though I see his wounded eyes right in front of me. The knowledge of it that he wears every day.

‘Of course,’ Brienne says. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m just about the only person alive who doesn’t blame my brother for that.’

‘And what about you?’ She looks like a torch in the dim light. Staunchly ablaze.

‘What about me?’ This is the most we’ve ever talked about something like this.

‘When shall you see your - family again?’ Her eyes are the dark embers of the fire, and I wonder whom she means in particular, and suppose she doesn’t really mean Tyrion. Damn it.

I give a little laugh. ‘I should think not for a very long time.’ I stretch my legs out, rest my handless arm on the chair. ‘Still, at least it could be worse company.’

Brienne almost scowls, sitting back and folding her arms. 

‘You know I meant that as a compliment.’ Enough being serious and open-hearted. ‘And I know you think the same. Admit it, Brienne, you’ve been waiting for the day in which you could hear me pissing within earshot again.’

She sighs and stands, her head almost touching the roof. But she stops at the doorway and turns back. ‘What were you teasing Podrick about this afternoon? Something about work he was good at?’

‘Oh, you know,’ I say, looking at her with my eyebrows raised. ‘The rumours about him.’

‘What rumours?’

‘About his – prowess.’

She looks blank and a little impatient. ‘Prowess at what?’

I lean back on the two back legs of my chair and give a little shrug. ‘I have it on very good authority that Podrick is capable of doing such wonderful things to ladies in bed that even whores beg to pay him for it.’

A flicker of alarm, mixed with horror and painful embarrassment. ‘Gods. Do you have to?’

‘It’s just what I heard.’ I can’t help grinning at her. ‘You didn’t have any inkling, on the road? As the nights got colder?’

‘Goodnight, Jaime,’ she says, in the voice of a mother scolding a child who has barely learnt to walk.

‘Goodnight, Brienne,’ I say to her broad, marvellous back.

**Sandor**

The room’s spinning like I’m in some giant-child’s toy being wound round and round. Feels much worse on land than it did the sea. Almost wish I was back on that blasted ship now, the way everything sways, the people in the tavern room moving as if the wind is battering them about.

I used some of the coin I had left over from Stranger – mustn’t think of him, mustn’t think of that last puff of hot air on my hand – to get this room for two nights. Rain drumming its crone-nails into the roof. The stink of another man’s piss.

Spent a bit of time downstairs in the hope that wine would dull my sickness, keeping my head down and my ears cocked for Westerosi voices. Nothing – just other tongues mixed together like vines, winding up and around me. Tomorrow I’ll get out, get a cloak over my head, see what I can see and hear. Get to know the streets a bit. Maybe it’s the long game for this one. I hope to hells they’re still in this fucking city.

I shut my eyes, play it over and over again, that sight of her hand in the air. On her chest, in the air. Chest, air. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t.

My stomach growls. Thought I’d be better once on land, but I couldn’t eat a thing down there. More sounds on the roof and all – maybe it’s not rain, but rats. Maybe it’s both. I hope at least that the pair of them have a better roof than this over their heads. I picture them lying somewhere, and me watching over them, spread out up on the roof-beams like a bat, the great big black fucking princessguard maybe neither of them even want.

Rats in the roof, rain in my guts. 

***

**Arya**

‘You’re unhappy.’

Sansa looks like something carved from white marble or the trunk of a willow. She hasn’t done anything much in the last day but gaze out of the window or pick her nails. When she eats, it is as if every mouthful is poison that she must take in order to save a city. It makes everyone else quiet and tiptoey, and makes you talk louder and swear more just to crash into the silence.

When you speak, it’s as if she has just woken up from a milk-poppied sleep. She blinks. ‘I am happy that we are together. That we are safe.’

‘ _Are_ we safe?’

She sighs. ‘As safe as we can be. It’s better than being on Westeros when everyone wants to kill us.’ Her eyes go all glassy again. ‘Almost everyone.’

 _You want to be squashed underneath the Hound on some cotbed on an island full of monks_ , you think. ‘I think I am going to look for Jaqen,’ you say, bringing out your coin and tapping the thin edge of it on the table. 

Sansa looks at you. ‘The man with the many faces?’

You nod. ‘I know Jaime and Brienne think they’re the best warriors in Westeros, but they’re not a patch on Jaqen.’ Or the Hound, when he’s not wounded. Or drunk. Or wounded and drunk.

‘How will you find him if you don’t know what he looks like?’

You bite on the coin thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’m going to get Podrick to help.’ You looked out of the window, where Brienne’s squire was polishing his mistress’s sword. Every time you talked to him his eyes fell to the floor and he blushed like a little girl. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘He was a very good squire to Lord Tyrion. He saved him at the Battle of Blackwater, it’s said.’

You can’t help snorting. ‘I can’t imagine Podrick saving a kitchenmaid from fainting - you do know he’s Ser Illyn’s cousin?’ You had had so many dreams of smashing the executioner’s face in that you couldn’t remember what he looked like anymore.

‘That doesn’t mean that he’s bad, too. Ser Jaime is a Lannister, after all.’

‘I’m still not sure about him,’ you say, imagining Jaqen and Jaime in a fight that lasted about three breaths. You were sure that half the reason Jaime was even with you was to get underneath Brienne’s armour. 

‘ _Arya_ ,’ your sister says. At least you’d woken Sansa up a bit. ‘He’s risked his life. He’s sacrificed everything to look after us.’

For the dozenth time, you try not to think of the other person who’d done just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **From hence on, each chapter will be named after a song in honour of the famous Braavosi weather! Or something else, if I’m so inspired. Hahaha.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Here’s Chapter 2’s song![Buddy Holly's 'Raining in My Heart'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNf7Y7Z5Jq8). Another drunken request from Sandor at the end of the night, probably clutching a limp flower to his chest, crooning along sadly, but wonderfully in tune, an octave lower.**


	3. Rain Dogs

**Arya**

You find Podrick sitting with one of Brienne’s metal forearm guards and a gauntlet on his lap. He always seems to find something to do. Peeling potatoes, boiling pans of water, digging mud out of boots, polishing things. He’d take your bloody chamber pot if you didn’t shout at him not to. 

He looks up, begins to greet you. ‘My -’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ you say, and Podrick clamps his mouth shut. You turn and face him properly. ‘I want you to do something for me.’

Podrick nods, his eyes wide. ‘Of course, my lady. Anything.’

You glare at him. He looks at Brienne’s armour. ‘I know someone here,’ you say. ‘In Braavos. You’re going to help me look for him.’

He straightens. ‘Of course. I’ll let Lady Brienne know.’

‘No. No Lady Brienne. Or Jaime Lannister. I don’t want either of them coming.’

‘But -’ his eyebrows come together like they’re trying to pray. ‘It’s not safe. There should always be one of them with you -’

You fold your arms. ‘I heard that you saved Lord Tyrion during the Battle of Blackwater.’

‘That’s true, my lady, but I was just doing my duty.’ Podrick looks annoyingly humble. 

If _you’d_ done that you would have told everyone. ‘Well then, this is your duty. I’m a lady, and you’re everyone’s squire.’

‘I’m Lady Brienne’s squire, really.’

You tap your crutch loudly on the stone floor. ‘You said you’d do anything.’ You tilt your head, let your eyelashes blink all heavily. ‘Go on, Podrick. _Please_. I’ll let you call me my lady for a day.’ 

The red spreads up his neck.

***

**Sandor**

Sansa.

There. A flash of red under a headscarf. I put my hand out, say ‘little -’ and she turns round and it’s not her, could never be her, because no one is as late-summer-coloured as her. I mumble something and take my hand away, lurch off.

Two days and nothing but the fish-stink of every foreign bastard in this city, grasping hands and flea-eyed looks. Found a couple of sailors who spoke Common Tongue on the docks in the main harbour, the one they would have landed at, and got nothing out of them but shifty bloody looks that meant I had to threaten them and their mothers and their daughters with sorry deaths in case they talked to anyone. It’s a dangerous game – the more I ask after anyone, the more I give myself up. Better to keep my head down, just watch, not ask if they’ve seen a tall blonde bitch and a one-handed smug highborn and two girls as different from each other as oil and water, as summer and winter.

The innkeep chucked me out. No more coin to pay. My next night’ll be on the streets, then.

I sit at the corner of an alleyway on a step, being rained on, looking up at the Iron Bank and trying to imagine all the coin inside. Imagining me and Stranger riding on in there, storming through the doors, coming out with my pockets full of money, maybe leaving a few men in nice pools of blood for good measure. Maybe Lannister’s got friends in there, though, might turn up. Maybe I’ll watch it for a while.

Seven hells. Starting to think I need this wound seen to properly. A maester, or a healer. The smell’s bad, and getting worse, unless the wine’s been making my nose go as well as my brain. Even a peasant next to me, who looks like birds have been shitting on him, moves away.

Everything keeps going blurry, like I’m looking at it through a window that the rain’s smeared up. I’m blinking red, it’s always all bloody re -

***

**Jaime**

‘Mother, hear my prayer. Father, hear my prayer.’ Sansa is murmuring into her hands, which are folded in front of her as she kneels.

Dust dances in the light that plumes in from two high windows in the Sept-Beyond-The Sea. Sansa had requested she visit it, and I agreed to accompany her. We can’t all stay cooped up in that house day after day. I’m sure it will settle, once we get used to each other, and the way of the city, but there’s only so much I can take of Arya’s damned sniping. I’ve half a mind to strangle her, one-handed.

It’s bloody quiet here – I’d had us wait behind some stones until the sailors we had seen enter had re-emerged. The less of our fellow Westerosi we fraternise with the better. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to stop and really think since we arrived, or perhaps since rather longer. Since somewhere on the road, Sansa and I shivering in some forest somewhere, me trying to convince her that I wasn’t going to dishonour her.

She speaks on, words crushed together like gathered velvet. I wonder who she’s praying for. 

I’ve never gone in much for one god or the other. We were brought up with the Seven of course, introduced to them by our father as if they were guests at a supper in which he’d probably hold them to ransom, or poison them. He only believes in them out of some sort of cold necessity. Cersei likewise. We never spoke to them – they always just adorned the stone, stained the glass, watched us silently from the walls.

Sansa stands and gazes up at the wide hips and big eyes of the Mother for a little longer, before walking up to join me, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

I step out first onto the hilltop, looking to the foreigner’s harbour some distance away and a wide stretch of gloomy sea. ‘How are you?’ I say, quietly. It’s the first time I’ve really had a chance to speak with her alone in a long while – once we crashed into her sister and Clegane, the quiet companionship we’d eventually established rather fell by the wayside.

She looks at me, and I see the cool, polished guise of hers loosen just a little. There’s a shrug and a sad smile. ‘I’m alright.’

‘I imagine it’s strange being on a different side of the sea.’

‘Isn’t for you, too?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. Still, I’m rather glad to see something new after all these years.’

Another small smile. ‘I am grateful to you. You do know that.’

I nod. ‘There’s no need for that.’

She sighs. ‘Almost everyone I love is dead. My mother, my father, my three brothers. I can’t remember their faces anymore. It’s not even been that long. Being further away makes that even harder.’

‘You’ve got your sister, at least. I know it’s not your whole family.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I know that -’ she glances at me, a delicate half-question in her eyes. ‘You must miss – yours.’

‘Not exactly.’ How she can refer so politely to someone who, from what I can gather, tormented her as much as Joffrey did, I can’t grasp. Enough of Cersei. I give a quick, grimacing smile. ‘I wish _your_ sister would stop bloody complaining all the time.’

‘I’m sorry. She doesn’t mean it. She just takes it out on you for some reason. I suppose she always had someone else for that, before.’ The fine rain lands on her shawl and she brings her hood up, stares outwards. ‘Do you suppose - he’s alright?’ Her words are as faint as the drizzle.

‘Clegane?’

A careful nod.

‘I’m sure he’s grumbling and cursing more than ever. But with the right people looking after him, he’ll be better.’

She doesn't say anything.

***

**Arya**

Everyone in Braavos dresses like they’re summer fruits and sweets. Or at least the poorer people do – it’s the opposite of King’s Landing, where only the lords and ladies and royal family dressed in bright colours. Here it’s the rich people who dress as if they’re trying to disguise themselves at midnight, and the ones selling them stuff, or sitting on street corners, who are bright. It’s strange.

You’re walking through a busy market – or limping, with your crutch, and in truth, your leg is fucking hurting like mad already, but you wouldn’t pass it up. You’d been stuck inside for two days, and now you’re in the pumping bloody heart of a new city. It would be nicer if it stopped raining, though.

‘I really think we should go back now, my lady.’ Podrick’s next to you, as close as he can be without actually touching you, looking around like you’re both going to get murdered at any moment.

‘Don’t be such a wimp. Don’t you want to see where we’re living now? We’re not prisoners.’ You look about at everyone. You can’t imagine Jaqen wearing bright colours. But then, you have no idea what Jaqen might look like. Last time you’d seen him, he’d turned around with a different face, as easily as if he’d just put a cloak on.

‘We might be if we’re not careful, my lady.’

‘No one’s after us here. That’s why Jaime Lannister decided to come here, idiot.’

By one of the waterways, there’s a long barge, as long as a fallen tree. There is a woman sitting on a high chair on top of it, with servants around her, one holding some sort of rain-shade thing above her. Her skirts look like a waterfall, and she smiles in a strange way as she looks about, as if she is not quite real, or everything around her isn’t.

‘Who’s that?’ you say.

Podrick stops, too. ‘I don’t know, my lady.’ 

You let the fiftieth ‘my lady’ slide, even though each one makes you itch. You’d said he could, and so he does at the end of every bloody thing he says. It’s like a nervous twitch.

‘Maybe she’s a princess.’

You both watch her a bit more. Men bowing with their noses down to their bloody knees. One has servants behind him carrying a chest that they are opening, and even you can see the glint of gold from here. The woman nods and her eerie glass-smile widens. She stands, and the rain-shade rises above her, and she disappears down into the cabin, and the rich man steps up onto the boat.

‘I don’t think she’s a princess, my lady,’ Podrick says, and you can hear the blush in his voice.

You watch the man wave the gold chest onto the boat before he goes down through the same door as the lady. ‘Oh. Really?’ A rich whore, on show like that? ‘Gross.’ You turn. There’s no need to stay and watch more men line up to fuck.

Further down an alleyway, whilst you are looking at a stall full of big fruits with dappled green skins that are blood-coloured inside, there is a commotion behind you. Men speaking angrily becomes shouting, and as you look around, swords have been pulled out.

Swords as slender as Needle, if longer. Two men, standing side-on.

‘Water dancers,’ you say, under your breath. 

They are both angry about something. And people are crowding around to watch, as if they know something amazing will happen. You have never seen two fighting each other.

‘My lady, it’s dangerous here.’

‘Shut up, Podrick,’ you say, eyes still on the men, who circle each other. ‘I want to watch.’

But before they fight, your eyes flicker to the crowd, to another man, walking away. A short green jacket, dark, tight-curled hair, the manner of walking you knew so well from trying to read his moves. _Syrio_.

You say his name, start moving on your crutch. 

‘My lady -’ says Podrick.

It was him. It was him. You’d never seen him die. Only heard it - or thought you’d heard it. You push through people, ignore the clash of swords that you hear from the two men, trying to throw your eyes ahead. You mustn’t lose him.

Past elbows and hips and hands. Past people in blue clothes, pink, bright purple, gold. Syrio. Ser Meryn and his sword. Not today.

You have to hop faster, ignoring Podrick’s quiet protests. The hair – there he is, just there, and gone again. You can’t go fast enough, gods damn it. ‘ _Hurry_ ,’ you say, and wish you were on a horse, a boat. A flash of green jacket. You push into someone, stumble and there’s a sharp pain in your leg and you fall into a column of boxes of fruit, which tumble out, all the colours of the people of Braavos and more, and they roll everywhere. People start picking them up, shouting and cheering.

‘Syrio!’ you shout and the man turns round and it is not him. His hair is the same but his face is younger, smoother, puzzled. It is not him.

Another man is running up, large and fat, shaking his fist in your face. These are his fruits that everyone is now eating. You push yourself up. He is shouting and hot, dank breath hits your face. He wants money that you don’t have.

You look at Podrick. He’s strong enough. ‘Well if I don’t have a horse,’ you say, and jump on his back. ‘ _Run_.’

***

**Sandor**

And she kissed me. Didn’t she? On the cheek. I had to lean down. I can’t even remember it now, the feeling of it, though it was the only thing keeping me going in that ship’s cabin, the only thing that wasn’t the stink of my own piss and shit.

Something rolls to my foot, hits my toes. A fruit, dark purple-coloured. I pick it up. It glistens with the rain.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe this city isn’t real. The only thing that’s real is this wound, which is turning into a dog, a rabid starved one, and biting me. Maybe it’ll eat me.

I get up. The world nearly tips over. 

***

**Jaime**

When Sansa and I return to the house, Brienne rushes to the door, wild-eyed. She looks disappointed to find it’s us.

‘Expecting someone else?’ I say.

She looks past us. ‘They’re not with you?’

‘No,’ I say, slowly, and simply. ‘I left them with you, if you recall. Small girl, brown hair, filthy mouth, boy who never stops being polite or cleaning things.’

‘Gods damn it,’ she says, through clenched teeth.

‘What’s happened?’ says Sansa, a little more lively than I’ve heard her since we’ve been in Braavos. ‘Where’s Arya?’

‘She was here,’ says Brienne, rather desperately. ‘Right - here, with Podrick. I was only upstairs for a moment. I came down and they were nowhere to be found. I’ve been out on the streets, I’ve been everywhere, and I thought I’d come back here to see if -’

‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ I say, raising my eyebrows. ‘The one task we have is to keep them safe, Brienne.’

‘I know,’ she says, looking like she might cry, or put her fist in my face, or perhaps both.

‘Tell me you weren’t yelling her bloody name over and over out there.’

‘Of course not.’

Sansa sits down and puts her thumbnail in her mouth, and frowns.

‘I’m – sorry, Lady Sansa,’ Brienne says, leaning down to her in an oddly gallant fashion.

‘No need to apologise yet, woman,’ I say and she straightens and looks at me, the faintest bit of pleading in her eyes, which I can’t help but glean just a little pleasure from. ‘You’re going to go back out there and look for them now that we’re back. And when you’ve had enough you can come back and I’ll go.’

She takes a great big gulp of breath as if she’s about to blow the bloody house down and blinks before nodding, firmly. Collecting up her gauntlets and sword, she storms back out.

‘I hope she’s not dead,’ Sansa says. ‘I really don’t want her to be dead.’

‘She won’t be dead,’ I say. ‘No one else is dying. Not while I have anything to do with it.’

***

**Sandor**

And that little one – all she ever did was moan or snap pigeon bones between her fingers in the middle of the night or try and kill me. Going on about dancing like the night or like a fucking fish or whatever it was. Getting under my skin. Gods, she got under my skin. So much so that I’m here, almost as much for her as for - because I’ve saved her so many times I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that be the end of - 

I walk straight into a tall, armoured warrior. _Watch where you’re fucking going_ , I say, not expecting they’ll understand, except the man turns and as my words come out I realise who it is.

Not a man. Tarth. Staring at me. 

_What on earth_? she says, and looks like she is trying to say about five hundred things more. _Why are you here_? she ends up with, half under her breath, as if maybe no one will notice two great big fucking armoured lugs in the middle of the street.

I walk to a wall that’s in shadow, hear her follow, and manage to stand straight. Put a look on my face like I couldn’t care less that I’ve just found her, which means I’ve found _them_. 

_I don’t have to fucking answer to you_ , I say, nodding at her hand, which hangs at her hip, looking bloody desperate to get her Lannister steel out. _Planning to use that, are you_? Trying to ignore the fucking great pounding in my head, keeping my voice level.

Her eyes narrow, though they’re still big wide bloody moons. _I thought you were going to the Quiet Isle_. She sounds like everyone’s mother and everyone’s septa and everyone’s fucking conscience.

I sniff. _Changed my mind_ , I say, and eyeball her. 

She stares at me, and there’s a little pulse banging in her cheek, like something desperate to get out. 

_You had better come with me, then_ , she says, and stalks off.

***

**Arya**

‘Now _that_ was funny,’ you say, putting your shoulder against the door. Podrick looks like he might collapse.

Jaime Lannister is standing there. ‘Where have you bloody been?’ Sansa is behind him, looking pale and – relieved, perhaps.

‘Nowhere.’

Jaime puts his hands on his hips. Well, _one_ hand on one hip. ‘Nowhere. For half the afternoon. Lady Brienne is out looking for you.’

‘Well, she should have just waited here. We were always coming back. We were just having a look around.’

Jaime turns to Podrick. ‘Podrick?’

‘Yes, my lord?’ He looks panic-stricken. 

‘Where did you go?’

‘Nowhere, my lord.’ Your glare turns into a grin. His look becomes guilty. ‘Sorry, my lord.’ 

Jaime lets out a breath like a long, lazy sword-swipe and stares at the table for a while, tapping the fingers of his good hand on its corner. When he speaks again, it’s low and a little tired. ‘You’re not to go out without either Lady Brienne or myself again. Do you hear?’

You fold your arms. ‘Says who? You’re not my _father_.’

Jaime closes his eyes. ‘Thank the gods.’

You think about saying whose father he really is, because everyone knows it and no one ever says, but Sansa’s looking at you in a strange way. ‘This house is horrible,’ you say instead. ‘You can’t expect us to stay all cooped up like bloody chickens all day long.’

‘Anyone would think that you hadn’t spent a year sleeping in hollows and ditches – no, much more than that if you count your time with the Brotherhood.’

‘That was different.’

‘Why, pray, my lady?’

He calls you that just to make you more furious. You bite down on your anger. ‘Because I didn’t have to sleep in hollows and ditches next to _you_ ,’ you say.

A tiny sigh from Sansa.

Before you can run at Jaime and ideally stab him in the eye with your crutch, the door bashes open and the light is blocked out immediately. And not just by Brienne.

It's him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SONGTIME** :
> 
> Chapter 3's song is [Rain Dogs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTlkVTwMLFs). Because obviously Sandor is a Tom Waits fan. Everyone knows that. I can just see him stumbling around Braavos’ rainy half-lit streets at night to this.


	4. Rainy Day Man

**Arya**

You all stand up, very quickly. 

The Hound follows her into the room, almost having to stoop under the low roof. _The Hound_. Even though it’s only been a few days, it feels like a lifetime since you have seen him. After all, you had spent a year in each other’s pockets, never out of each other’s sight, as much as you both wanted to, most of the time.

Everyone is staring at him. Brienne has her arms folded. 

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ says Jaime, managing to sound not surprised in the slightest.

There’s a ticking sound that can only be rain, because it is never anything else.

‘I knew you couldn’t do it,’ you say. ‘I knew it.’

The Hound rolls his eyes. ‘Did you now.’ He looks tired, and his skin is definitely whiter than normal.

‘My lady?’ Jaime says quite carefully, to Sansa. She is caught in a bit of dust-filled sunlight that makes her look like a ghost, and is staring at the Hound.

She folds her hands together. ‘I am glad to see you well,’ she says to him, very politely, and as if she has just remembered how to breathe.

The Hound gives a strange, wincing nod. He looks a bit like a ghost himself.

It is your turn to roll your eyes.

And then The Hound’s knees go, and just like that he crumples to the floor, trying to grab a chair and failing, the scrape of it against the floor like a war trumpet full of water. You hop over to him, and Sansa is already there at the other side. He looks terrible. 

He opens one eye. ‘Not all that well, now that you mention it.’

***

**Jaime**

Brienne, Podrick and I haul Clegane upstairs, which almost breaks my back in two, and Sansa goes to boil water. It’s not just fatigue, or landsickness – that wound he’d taken from Gregor Clegane in the inn at Saltpans wasn’t a scratch. It stinks to the seven heavens. Not exactly wise, taking a trip across the Narrow Sea when you should be laid up and staying very still and ideally out of your mind on henbane.

Brienne is best fit to get him out of his armour, elbowing Podrick out of the way. Clegane seems barely conscious, though he still manages to curse at her once or twice under his breath, something about maids and cows that I pretend not to hear.

Arya drags a stool over to the side of the bed. ‘We’ll stay with him,’ she says.

Brienne and I go back downstairs. She is glaring at me.

‘What?’ I say.

‘What do we do now?’ she says, a quiet hiss.

I shrug. ‘The same as we were going to do beforehand. Lay low, look after the girls, try not to die.’

She jabs an elbow onto the table, leans over to me. ‘ _He’s_ more conspicuous than any of us.’

I try to suppress a smile, taking in her broad, pale temple and gleaming hair, the proud, furious heft of her jaw. ‘None of us are exactly Faceless Men, Brienne.’ I can’t help looking at her for a moment too long, and she shoves her eyes away, staring at the table as if trying to crack it into flame.

‘I have to say, I’m rather impressed at his determination,’ I say. 

‘Determination to do what?’ she says.

‘Come on, Brienne.’ I try and catch her eye again. ‘He’s a soft spot for those two girls, and that’s not something I would have ever imagined saying about him a year or two ago. I know he’s as uncouth as they come, but an extra sword really won’t go amiss, will it?’

‘Not while he’s lying on my bed,’ she says. 

‘You can have my chamber,’ I say, and enjoy the flare of red on her neck as she quickly looks at me in a manner that is both startled and accusatory. ‘Plenty of room in there.’ I fold my arms, smile benignly and don’t say anything else.

Podrick comes downstairs with an empty bowl. 

I let the silence linger a little longer before speaking. ‘Podrick, you won’t object to you and I sharing a chamber for a while, will you?’

‘No, my lord,’ says Podrick, as if it would be the greatest honour. He may be a bit of a dolt, but I can see why Tyrion favoured him. ‘I’ll sleep in the stable if you prefer.’

‘No need for that,’ I say. ‘As long as you don’t snore. How’s the patient?’ 

‘Cursing rather a lot, my lord,’ he says. 

‘Marvellous,’ I say, leaning back on my chair and beaming at Brienne, who looks as if she’s deciding which part of me to mangle first.

***

**Sandor**

I open my eyes to find Wolfgirl half-asleep, leaning her shoulder against the top of the bed, her mouth hanging slack. 

I shift and she sits bolt upright, trying to pretend she’d been awake all along. I move my head around to get a look at the place, though it hurts like a bastard to do so and everything swims. It’s a dark room, though clean, bare. A few things in the corner that aren’t mine. 

_It’s Brienne’s room_ , she says.

I take a deep breath, or try to without it feeling like my insides are falling out. To be here means putting up with that big dumb mare. That’s what that milk smell is. _Her_.

 _You’ll probably have to share with her_ , she says, looking at me with what she thinks is a blank, serious face, but I know her well enough now to see the glint in her eye. _Though I don’t know how you’ll both fit_.

 _Shut it_ , I say, and lean back. I’m in a different shirt, a bit small. 

Arya catches me looking at it. _She had to change you, too_ , she says. _Well, her and Jaime. It was bloody hilarious_.

 _I’ll fucking change you in a_ – I can’t finish the threat. Too tired.

Her sister’s not here. She didn’t even look all that pleased to see me – though what was I expecting? A welcome party and her hands full of roses, hitching her skirts up as she jumps into my fucking arms? Maybe this was all a bloody mistake. I start thinking about monks and islands again. 

_How’s that_? I say, nodding at her leg.

Arya scrunches her nose up and her shoulders at the same time. _Hurts still_ , she says. _I’m getting better at walking with the crutch, though_. 

I nod, wince. _It’s quiet_ , I say.

She leans back, thumping her spine against the wall. _Jaime’s downstairs_ , she says. _Sansa is out with Podrick – and Brienne, too. Sansa said that she didn’t need to come, but Brienne didn’t really give her the choice. She’s a bit_ – she flicks me a look – _eager_.

I chew on my lip. _Is she_ , I say, not meaning the woman-knight. Out with the red-faced squire who is her age, not wanting more company. Ay, I’ve made a bloody mistake alright.

 _You’re such an idiot_ , Arya says suddenly, shaking her head, and I don’t know what she means. Or maybe I do.

I feel half-bloody dead, my head coming back down to the straw pillow like it’s full of bricks. _Leave me be now_ , I say, shutting my eyes.

 _Fat chance_ , she says, quietly. _Idiot_.

***

**Arya**

You don’t need to ask him why he’s here. You want to, very much, but you don’t think you need to. You know he’s in love with your sister, basically wants to fuck her, which is all obviously disgusting, but nothing’s going to happen there and anyway, you know that’s not just it. At least, you think you do.

He’s asleep again, mouth hanging open, and you’ve never watched him so much before, except at the castle in Saltpans, when you thought he was going to die. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to die this time – he managed to get all the way over the sea anyway. You suddenly remember Stranger, wonder why he isn’t here and realise that he left him in Westeros, and feel incredibly sad, for Stranger and for The Hound. He loved that horse.

The door goes downstairs, and quiet voices. Brienne is so big, and yet her voice is as soft as if it’s been washed in warm water and lavender oil over and over again. Sansa has been here as much as you have, and she doesn’t seem to care that he stinks, even though she would wrinkle her nose up at bread that had one speck of mould on it at Winterfell, or cheese that was starting to smell. That’s basically what his wound is like – mouldy bread and cheese and old meat.

There’s a rattle in his breath, like bits of gravel are travelling up and down inside him. He’s slept far more than he’s been awake.

It feels better, knowing he’s here. Even if he can’t stand up straight at the moment. Still, you feel safer. You know you’ll be less bored. 

***

**Jaime**

‘Any trouble?’ 

Brienne shakes her head. ‘It was busy, but we were careful.’ She gives me a look that is trying to tell me that she won’t make any mistakes again. I ignore it – good to let her stew for a while. It’s rather pleasant having the upper hand.

‘And you got what you needed?’ This time I’m addressing Sansa, who is holding a little bundle.

‘Yes,’ Sansa says. ‘I think so.’

‘Do you need help, my lady?’ I say.

Sansa shakes her head, firmly. ‘I watched the Elder Brother enough. I know what to do.’ There’s hardly any trace of the girl I stole away from King’s Landing. She’d been frightened to bits then, but it hadn’t lasted long as I’d helped her survive in the woods, and frankly she’d helped me just as much, one way or another. Those weeks in the forest had bound us together in a way that I still could not put my finger on. Companions, if coolly so, who trusted one another.

‘Very well,’ I say, and smile at her.

‘I still think, my lady -’ says Brienne, standing up, her armour clunking together. ‘As he’s a man, and older than -’

‘No thank you,’ says Sansa. ‘I’m fine. I’ll call if I need anything.’

***

 **Sandor**

There’s a soft knocking in my skull that I realise is the door. Wolfgirl’s gone, and the candle’s got low. Rain outside. I grunt a bit and Sansa comes in with a bowl and a pouch of something. All the air in me disappears someplace else.

She puts her things down on the table. _How is your wound feeling_? she says, in a voice so soft I can hardly hear it. Though there’s a buzzing in my ears, too. 

Hurts to buggery, I think. I give a smile that is probably a grimace. _Had worse_ , I say.

She sees right through me, and gives me a look that sends pins through my ribs. _Will you let me tend to it_? she says.

The rain’s coming down like an army marching on a road of grain. _Thought it wasn’t supposed to bloody rain over here_ , I say.

She doesn’t say anything, just brings a chair to the side of the bed, drags the table over. When did she become so bloody tall, so shot full of strength? She’s like a fucking hundred-year-old ash tree. Seems only yesterday she was flitting about in the Red Keep, fluttering after Joffrey, batting her bloody eyelashes at his back, making me rage. And now those eyelashes are flecked with the light from the candle and my damned heart’s in my mouth.

 _You’ll need to lift your shirt_ , she says. 

Gods. I nod as if it’s nothing, sit up a bit, pull the material up to the middle of my ribs. Seven hells, I stink.

She tilts down towards me, puts her hand on the bed, her face close to mine. A light like the rind of an orangefruit lining her cheek.

Her fingers come out, and I remember when she stitched my arm up after that fight with Lannister in the woods. She touches my side as if she’s drawing it, or trying to remember it for later. The wound looks bloody ugly – as ugly as the rest of me – the lip of skin on one side is deep purple and ragged.

 _Does it hurt_? she says, pushing slightly harder.

 _Ay_ , I say.

 _I’m sorry_ , she says, withdrawing her hand quickly, and I shake my head, thinking, you could put your hand right bloody inside me, touch blood, hold onto bone, and I’d let you.

 _It needs regular washing_ , Sansa says, turning round to the bowl and squeezing out the cloth that’s already in there. The water’s sending up snake-curls of steam, a sharp, vegetable smell coming from it. She comes closer to me, and I make myself focus on the wound, will it to throb with pain, just so as I don’t think about wanting to shift her on top of me, tend to me another way.

 _Sage and tea-tree_ , she says, though I didn’t ask, and she tells me that the monk had used the same, and what he’d done at Saltpans when I was dead to the world, that he’d given her some. _I went out with Podrick and Lady Brienne to get it_. Her words fold in with the sound of the rain as she talks about the markets. I could sleep listening to her.

When I open my eyes, she’s sat back on her chair, further away from me, looking at me like I’m a map. _You need rest_ , she says.

 _I’m alright, little bird_ , I say.

For half a moment, there’s a childishness to her face, before she says no, and a sureness comes into her eyes almost as hard as steel. _No. That’s what you were going to do. On the Quiet Isle. Rest. Have time to – think. It shouldn’t be any different here_. She sounds like she’s telling herself, not me. She looks into the distance, nods, small and definite, and rises. 

I want to catch her hand. I want to – I want everything of her. Why the fuck else have I come? But I don’t. 

_Go to sleep_ , she says, her voice like a hand on my forehead, and I think, yes, little bird, and watch her leave, the door-latch clicking like fingers, and do just as she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rainy Day Man by James Taylor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMdIlTAxf9Y). This one is for Sansa, who pretends to like Ke$ha and Kanye but actually goes to sleep at night with James Taylor LPs clutched to her chest.
> 
> Comments are love! I love comments! And I love YOU (if you leave a comment). Ta for reading!


	5. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little nod to Jillypups for the opening shopping scene! Next up, Brienne and Arya go to the mall and discuss Ugg boots.

**Jaime**

Well, it certainly does nothing but bloody rain here. It almost makes me wish for the sun-blasted stone and blinding afternoons at King’s Landing, sweating my damndest in my Kingsguard cloak. Though that just makes me think of Cersei’s viper-smile and Father’s whittled words, and I become rather grateful for the damp on the back of my neck and the way the whole house steams up as soon as any of us step in from outside.

Sansa wears it all rather more gracefully – but then, she is from the North – walking through the markets as if on air with a cloak keeping the worst of the rain off, looking about curiously but never rudely. Smiling at the beggars. Not something Joffrey would ever have done, unless he was about to have their tongues removed and jammed somewhere else. I try not to shiver.

I agreed to accompany her into the heart of the city to buy material for dressmaking. Two days beforehand, I’d walked in on Arya shouting at her sister about bloody dresses and bloody princesses and yet here we are, amongst piles of cloth in every colour. Everyone yelling at each other at the tops of their voices as if that will entice people further.

Sansa stops at a small stall in a corner by some very damp hay that smells of old woman. There are tiny black stones set in necklaces and rings, and she puts her finger on one of them as if caught in a dream. The girl selling them has eyes as small and dark as the stones.

I let her enjoy them for a moment, and then cough. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we save our coin for necessities, my lady.’ No point in false hopes. I don’t breathe gold anymore. The air is rather cleaner for it, in some ways.

‘No, of course.’ She removes her hand and smiles at the girl, who doesn’t look old enough to be selling them. ‘I was just looking. I’ve never seen anything like them.’

‘They are rather magnificent.’ I lean in a little, enough to remain respectful. ‘One day you’ll have some someone dashing to buy you those. Someone you actually want, I mean.’

She gives me a quick, sharp flick of a look that I can’t quite read – as if I’ve uttered a secret aloud, but with something rather thoughtful about it, too. ‘I’m not sure I care much about that anymore.’ She gazes down at them again. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’ I say.

A little careful, watchful smile. ‘Don’t you want to sweep someone off their feet?’

‘The only person doing any sweeping is Podrick, constantly. I tell him to sit down but he never listens.’

Sansa isn’t one to let a quip or two stop her. She’s very dogged. ‘Why did you never marry?’

At least I’ve an easy answer for that, one that evades the real truth of it, which is that I wouldn’t have married anyone while I could be near Cersei. ‘Kingsguard made that an impossibility,’ I say, frowning at the sky for something else to do.

‘You’re not Kingsguard now.’ She speaks very gently.

‘True. But my father wanted me to marry. Take a wife, have Casterly Rock. I’m not inclined to do much of anything my father wants anymore.’ I offer my arm. ‘There’s silks over there. I’m sure your sister will love them. Shall we?’

She takes my elbow, and I try not to think about all the money I once had, how little I have now, and what on earth we’ll do when it runs out.

***

**Sandor**

I wake up with wood and heat next to my mouth, a vegetable smell. _What the fuck_ , I say, flinging my arm up.

Wolfgirl watches the spoon hurtle into a corner. She sighs and glares at me. _I was trying to tempt you with lunch_ , she says, going and picking it up. 

_You could bloody wake me up first_ , I say. Anyway, I can’t eat a damned thing. Since I’ve lain here, my whole body’s broken up into bits, like an old ship in a storm – the effort of getting here took more than I realised. Bloody wound. Bloody Gregor.

 _You have to try_ , Arya says, sitting back down. _You’ll waste away_. She gives me a quick up-down look and says _in about three hundred years_ under her breath.

Even the smell of it makes me feel like retching. _What the hells is in it, anyway_? I say.

She sticks the bowl in my face. I turn my head away, quickly. _Don’t know_ , she says, bringing it back and peering at it. _Mutton and parsnip and other stuff. Podrick made it_.

 _The squire_? I say.

She shrugs. _None of us can cook_ , she says. _He’s better than any of us. Jaime didn’t even know how to light the oven. He kept kicking it. Like it was a lame horse or something_. She holds the spoon up again and I shake my head. _Eat_ , she says. 

_No_ , I say, trying not to think about horses. _What the fuck are you wearing_? She’s not in her grubby rags any longer, but some green thing. A shirt and breeches with flaps over the top.

 _Don’t_ , she says, and she looks hurt and like she’ll ram the spoon in my eye. _Don’t say anything or I’ll kill you_.

I lean my head back on the pillow. Hurts. _You can’t kill me now_ , I say. _You’re back to being a girl_. I’d laugh if I didn’t think my wound would open up again. 

_I’m not_ , she says and I close my eyes. _I’m not_ , she says again, wrapping that last word around a millstone. Spoon’s there again, in front of me. _Eat_.

 _Leave me alone_ , I say.

 _Eat or I’ll get Sansa up here to spoon-feed you_ , she says.

I try not to show the panic that flares up in me. _Shut the hells up, girl_ , I say, and I know straightaway I’ve let my guard down too much. _Let me bloody rest_.

She’s already gone to the door. _Sansa_! she bloody yells, loud enough for the whole world to know that there are Starks living here in Braavos.

Gods, don’t get her up here, I think. And I think please, come upstairs. Wolfgirl’s thunking her head on the door frame, loudly, grinning at me. Thunk. Thunk. 

And then, in between the thunking, the steps creak. Fuck’s sake. 

_Hello_ , Sansa says, by the door. I’m more awake than when she was last here. She’s wearing something different – grey and purple with corn-yellow around her waist, and it makes me sick as a dog to see her in it. Bloody hells.

 _Someone won’t eat_ , says Arya, lifting her eyebrows up and down and jerking her head in a stupid fucking manner as if there are five other people in the room that Sansa has to look past to spot me.

She gazes at me for a while. _It’s not bad_ , she says. _You should probably be glad that neither of us have cooked it_.

My chin is a dead weight down to my chest. _Bring it here, then_ , I say.

Arya gives her sister the bowl and makes a sound like a calf that’s just had its flank slapped as she goes downstairs, muttering under her breath.

Sansa comes over. Puts a cloth in my palm and then the bowl on top of it. It hurts to sit up, though I do it, for her, imagining the stitches she’s given me pulling apart. She gives me the spoon. Sits. 

I lift the bowl, see the floating bits of brown flesh and colourless vegetables, stare them down like they’re feeble boys I’ve got to kill in a battle, and try and bring the spoon up. Seven fucking hells, my arm hardly works – my damned hand’s shaking. I have one go, slurp like a bloody toothless crone and have to lean back, drop my hand.

I feel like I’ve failed a test. _I'm sorry_ , I say, staring at the roof. _Fuck_.

She does a frown that’s also a smile, or maybe the other way round, and shakes her head, before bringing her chair nearer, taking the soup off me. _You’re unwell_ , she says. _The wound’s given you a fever again. It – you weren’t fit to come over here_.

You telling me I shouldn’t have? I think and don’t say.

She stares at the bowl for a moment, before nodding at it as if it has told her something. And then she puts the spoon in and brings it up towards my mouth. Holds it there, waiting. Gods. I want to tell her to bugger off, tell her I’m not a bloody babe-in-arms, tell her to just let me fucking starve, but I do none of those things. I take a deep breath and shake my head and let her slot it in, tip it so that I catch the liquid. 

I’m sweating as much as the soup is. It’s got bloody hot in here.

And she spoons me up some more, neither of us looking at each other, staring at the soup like it’s a bloody greenseer. Ragged bits of mutton going down, slowly, broth warming my insides, and me working hard on making sure it doesn’t come roaring back up again. 

The tick of rain on the window. The click of my jaw. I can hear Arya banging around downstairs and maybe the squire’s voice saying a few words. 

The spoon keeps coming and I stare at it longer each time but keep going, keep letting her bring her hand close, her knuckle almost at the side of my mouth. Fuck. Her hair’s falling in one long handful over her shoulder, and there’s dust on her collarbone. 

I look at her, chewing my last mouthful, as slowly as a bloody dull-eyed cow. And she’s watching me like she’s a milkmaid at the end of a long day and I shouldn’t think of milkmaids and she says _there_.

 _There what_? I say.

 _That’s not the last meal made by Podrick that you’ll be having_ , she says. _And finishing_. She gives a little smile, like she’s proud of herself, or of me, and I think of milk again, but this time that thick kind you’d get once it’s churned a bit, maybe nearer cream, round the top of a jug, the kind you skim off with a finger and what the fuck am I doing talking about milk?

 _Ay_ , I say. _We’ll see_.

 _You’ve got_ – she says, and stops. Eyes darting up near my mouth.

 _What_? I say.

 _Just – soup_ , she says, and before I can move my weak little girl’s hands, she gets there first, her thumb a tiny wipe at the edge of my mouth, my burnt side, her thumb on my skin, and she brings it away and bloody licks the tip of it. She licks the liquid away, as deft as a cat with – no I’m not saying milk again - and then blinks like she’s shocked herself and stands up. 

I give a shiver that I can’t even help. 

She’s standing there with the bowl in her hand and looks like she doesn’t know which way to turn, as if there are four doors out of this room and not just one. _I’ll get Podrick to bring more firewood up_ , she says, and glances back at me before disappearing, leaving me with the crackle of the rain and the crackle of the near-gone wood. With a blur of grey and yellow and amber and purple still left in the room, somehow. 

She’s had her hands on me, all over that wound, and it’s that that makes her run. I’m too much for her. ‘Course I am. What the fuck was I even thinking.

I fumble for the chamber pot, and throw the soup up.

***

**Arya**

Podrick is polishing swords out in the yard. He looks up and a great big stupid beam takes over his whole face. ‘You look very nice, my lady,’ he says very cheerily.

Sansa spent a day and a half making you the thing that is both skirt and breeches. Breeches underneath and a sort of short skirt over the top. It is olive green, which you had insisted upon – it makes you think of Syrio, who maybe was dead after all, seeing as he hadn’t been that man in the market. You have to admit, your sister has done a fine job, even if you do feel a bit odd in it.

You stomp over. ‘Shut up, Podrick.’

‘Of course, my lady.’ He doesn’t even seem to mind being told off. He is unbelievably annoying.

‘Are you wearing a new shirt?’ you say.

He blushes a little. ‘Yes. Lady Sansa is very kind.’ He looks like he is thinking about her now, and you roll your eyes, and imagine the Hound head-butting him for even daring to think about her. 

You kick at the ground. ‘Shall we train?’

‘As my –‘ he glances up at you quickly. You give him a look that says you’ll slice his feet off if he calls you that one more time. ‘Of course, as you wish.’ He gets up.

You look at Brienne’s sword, leaning there gleaming against the wall. One day maybe you would have one like that. When you were bigger. 

Podrick brings over wooden swords made out of broom handles. You snort. ‘What the hells are they?’

‘Practice swords.’ He looks a little crestfallen. ‘I made them.’

‘Are you too craven to use a real sword, Podrick?’

‘No, my lady. I just thought that that was what you meant by training.’

The Hound would laugh his burns off if he saw you using a wooden sword. Not that he’s even got out of his bloody bed yet. ‘We fight with steel. Nothing else,’ you say.

Podrick does what he does best. Agrees. ‘Very well.’ He picks up his own sword. ‘After you.’

‘You don’t say ‘after you’ to your enemy, idiot,’ you say, and stand side on, Needle resting lightly on your other wrist. ‘Time to teach you water dancing.’

***

**Sandor**

I wake up to find the Tarth woman leaning on the door frame, looking at me.

Everyone’s been here, like I’m a bloody envoy. Lannister comes up, talks to me as we’re bloody battle leaders standing over a map-table and not cooped up in some skinny damp house in this city that’s wetter than a whore in a knight’s training yard. Still, I let him. The red-faced squire, scuttles in to dump wood on the fire and poke at it for a while until I tell him to bugger off. Wolfgirl’s there more often than not, in her new clothes, half asleep next to the bed, or poking me to wake me up, or telling me how bored she is. And Sansa – every time I hear footsteps, I hope it’s her, sick to my stomach in case it is. Fever, she’d said. Ay, it’s something like that. 

_What the fuck do you want_? I say, and start coughing, which spoils it a bit.

Tarth just keeps looking for a bit. _Why did you follow us_? The way she says it, like I stalked them, like they were trying to get rid of me. She probably had been all along, smug bitch.

 _None of your fucking business_ , I say.

 _It is my business_ , she says. _I swore an oath_ – 

_Ay, alright, your oath_ , I say. _Spare me. We’ve all sworn oaths. Oaths don’t mean a fucking thing_.

 _They do to me_ , she says. All her words are so damned light, but with a dull gleam to them, like she’s spent hours polishing each one.

 _You want your chamber back_ , I say. _Is that it? Not enough room in yours to lie there dreaming of Renly Baratheon_?

 _I don’t care about the chamber_ , she says. _I only care about the welfare of Lady Sansa and Lady Arya_.

I snort. _You call her that in front of her, do you_?

Her jaw goes tight. She folds her arms. _Just know that if anything_ \- 

_What the hells is your problem with me_? I say. _You said you were supposed to look after those girls. I did your bloody job for you with one of them. Lannister with the other. I don’t see what you’ve done so far that can make you so pissing noble about everything_. 

She stares at me. _I will prove myself_ , she says, quietly enough that I have to work to hear her. _Not to you. To them_. 

And she clunks back down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I broke my 'every song must be about rain' rule. But I can do what I want, so THERE. This chapter's song is, of course, [Fever by Peggy Lee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGb5IweiYG8). At some point, perhaps Sandor will listen to some doomcore or drone metal, but for now, he's all about moody lounge music and has a penchant for the 1950s. And after all, the last line is 'what a lovely way to burn.'..


	6. Walking In The Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Zip001, to cheer them up (sort of).

**Jaime**

We’re sitting, as we seem to have got into the habit of, next to the fire, quite late. Not necessarily talking much, but companiable enough. Brienne’s a little more thoughtful since Arya and Podrick skipped out from under her nose, a little more humble. She’s examining the gardbrace that Podrick somehow hasn’t repaired to her satisfaction, leaning forward on her elbows. Her shirt falls away from her throat a little, and I can see the skin there, and think of having seen all of her once, when I was mad-drunk on the pain and horror of losing a hand, raving on about Aerys in that bathtub.

‘You know I always preferred you in the armour,’ I say.

She glances up at me, her eyes dull, careful, suspicious.

‘Not that pink monstrosity that Bolton had you in.’ I can see it now – she looked like a tree that had shed all its blossom in the rain.

Brienne’s eyes fall back down to her work.

‘I mean it,’ I say. ‘Men’s clothes suit you better.’

‘They’re not men’s clothes,’ she says, through a mouth that doesn’t really move. ‘They’re just clothes.’

‘Of course.’ 

She is perfectly dreadful at taking a compliment. I rather like it. Cersei would look at you as if the line should have been uttered a year earlier.

‘I preferred you with the beard,’ Brienne says suddenly, not looking at me.

There’s a little tug of something in my stomach. A warm sensation. 

‘And the prisoner’s clothes,’ she says, and the sensation cools. Her eyes come up, utterly humourless. ‘And the rope around your wrists.’

‘Well, if that’s how you prefer it.’ I’ll not let her win so easily.

She lets out a big breath. If she were a horse, she’d stamp her great hoof right now. ‘Why did you come back? When they had me in the bearpit?’ Before I can even speak, she goes on. ‘No quips, Jaime. No clever jokes.’

I look at the fire. ‘Well, you’d kept me alive, of a fashion. Most of me.’ She glances at my hand, almost rolling her eyes, not quite. I try to catch her eye. What the hells. Cersei is very far away. ‘Because I like you, Brienne. You know I do.’

She looks at me, one eyebrow firmly wedged against her forehead, but I swear I see a bit of that vulnerability that I didn’t dream at King’s Landing, when I saw her and Podrick off, the vulnerability that means I will keep on prodding at her until I find it again, and more of it.

‘The beard, you say?’ I murmur. ‘I could grow it back. Stop eating. For the emaciated prisoner look that you adore so much.’

She shakes her head. ‘Gods,’ she says quietly, exasperated.

I look at my metal hand, at the firelight bouncing off it. ‘Who do you think would have won? On the bridge, when I got your sword? Do you remember? Before -’ I can barely say the man’s name, the man that hacked off a small piece of my soul when he took my hand. ‘Locke.’ I hold it up. ‘When I had two of these.’ An embarrassment of riches, it seems now. A luxury. ‘If I hadn’t been tied up, just the way you like it.’

Brienne looks at me, one thick lock of ash-blonde hair falling in front of her eyes. She doesn’t move it. I imagine walking over, brushing it away. 

‘I would have won,’ she says.

***

**Arya**

You are so bored. All there is to do is train with Podrick, and you’re fairly sure that he lets you win every time. He apologises even when _you_ lay a hit on _him_. Sansa has made shirts for everyone in the bloody house, and more clothes for the two of you. And now she is learning Braavosi from the funny little man who first led you to this house, Varys’ man. He is called Morro and has made you laugh by juggling five onions at once. 

‘It’s such an interesting tongue,’ Sansa says to you all in the kitchen, all of you except the Hound, who is _still_ in bed even though it’s been almost two sennights. ‘It’s so different from the Common Tongue. But it’s a bit like High Valerian, at least in parts.’ She was always good at learning things. You used to joke that she wanted to marry Septa Mordane. ‘We should all learn it,’ she says.

‘We should, my lady,’ says Brienne. 

‘When we are going to fight people?’ you say.

‘That is not the plan,’ says Jaime.

‘Well, when are we going to talk about what we’re going to do about everything? About Winterfell?’

‘What exactly did you have in mind, my lady?’ he says.

Podrick comes in, wearing his latest bruise, which is the colour of wine mixed with shit.

‘Dear gods, Podrick, where did you get that?’ says Brienne.

‘Training, my lady,’ he says. ‘Lady Arya is very – her tactics are very unpredictable.’ He manages to make it sound like praise, even though you sort-of-accidentally-sort-of-not-accidentally smashed the hilt of Needle into his cheekbone. 

‘Anyway, about Winterfell,’ you say, tapping your crutch against the tiles. 

‘I think that it is going to be a little difficult to take back Winterfell with just the five of us.’

‘Six,’ you say.

‘Of course. Six,’ says Jaime. 

‘But can’t we at least find out what’s happening in the North? From Morro, or someone he knows? I thought Varys had eyes and ears in every port, even if he doesn’t have his own cock or balls.’

Lady Brienne takes a breath but doesn’t say anything. You mostly just say these things to see if she’ll scold you.

Jaime stares at the window, which is blurry with the rain. ‘Very well. I don’t see why not. I’ll go and see if I can find anyone at the harbour to talk to. There’s no harm in keeping abreast of everything that’s happening over there.’ He smiles. ‘At least it will get me out of the house. Lady Brienne?’

‘I’ll stay,’ she says, as if it’s by royal decree. 

You roll your eyes.

***

**Sandor**

_What happened to - your horse_? Sansa says. She’s taken to coming to talk to me, every day. Not that we say much, always, but even having her sit there makes me feel calmer. It’s better than Wolfgirl trying to get me up, helping me walk around leaning on her, feeling like the room’s turning upside down.

My chest stings at her question. I turn my head to the side on the pillow. _Sold him_ , I say. I can hear her breathing change, just the tiniest bit. When I dare look at her again, her eyes are big and round and the colour of a rock pool and I could fucking fall into them, scuttle under a sea-stone like a bloody crab. 

_I’m so sorry_ , she says, and her voice has a tiny crack in it. _That you had to do that_. She looks at her palms, looks up. _We could – you could_ –

 _Don’t say get another_ , I say, quick and bitter and not being able to stop the sigh that comes out, good as a bloody dying old woman. She does this to me – makes me speak the bloody truth, whether I want to or not. And now she looks even sadder. _Hopefully he’s running down Lannisters somewhere_ , I say, trying to drag a little lightness into my voice.

 _I’m sure he is_ , she says, and her face changes without it even moving. Like the daylight’s swept over it, given her a lighter shade. _Trampling on their guts_. She looks impish, pleased with herself.

I almost laugh. _You’ve spent too much time with the wrong people_ , I say.

 _Yes, I did_ , she says, dead quick, right back at me. _It’s better now_. She watches me, a challenge for what I’m not the hells sure. The rain batters the window. _You should sleep_ , she says, in a different voice, softer.

 _You keep telling me that_ , I say, putting my head back.

 _You look better every time you’ve had some_ , she says.

 _Not sure that’s saying much_ , I say, before I can help myself. 

A short breath, as if she’ll speak. Instead she moves her hand next to mine, smiles a little more and goes, leaving me with that same word again, an order wrapped up in silk and light cloth and all those other things girls squeal over, an order I’ll obey, for her. _Sleep_.

***

**Jaime**

I find Morro outside his own house, a tiny grey hovel that looks like it will collapse at any moment. He introduces me to his family, a wife who is even smaller than him who cups her hand to her pregnant belly, and four children who all look exactly the same. I feel a little twinge in my side, thinking of the three that I sired. Hearing Cersei scream so loudly that pillars almost cracked as Myrcella was born. Tommen, kicking his fat little legs on furs. Joffrey.

Morro has heard nothing from Varys since we arrived here, so we walk together to the harbour, me attempting to follow his quick, darting weave through the crowds. He, like all the locals here, does not seem to notice the endless rain that has me slip about like a bloody unshod horse.

We go to the main harbour first, the one for Braavosi sailors, and I hover behind Morro, feeling damned conspicuous, as he converses with some sailors who are throwing barrels from a galley. 

He returns shaking his head. ‘No Westerosi stories,’ he says, in his curious version of the Common Tongue. I am not entirely sure how much Sansa or any of us will learn from him. ‘We try other harbour.’

***

**Arya**

‘There’s nothing to do. They won’t let me go out on my own, or even just with Podrick. I have to have one of them as my bloody wet nurse the whole time.’ You kick your toes at the leg of the Hound’s bed. ‘At least when we were on the road we had things to do.’

‘Ay, like staying alive,’ he says. ‘Stop bloody kicking. Don’t you remember how fucking hard it was?’ 

You roll your eyes, but the Hound looks fiercer than he has done since he’s been here. ‘The reason we had things to do is because we were starving and looking for the next scrap of meat to get in us,’ he says. ‘Or shelter, or trying to get pissing wet firewood to burn. You’re finally under a roof wearing clean clothes and all you’re going to do is squall like a little baby?’

‘I’m not like Sansa, reading books and sewing and singing.’ 

The Hound suddenly looks sort of surprised and mopey and pathetic and like he’s forgotten that he was having a go at you. Seven hells, he’d be the worst spy ever. You can read his face like a map of bloody Westeros.

You stop kicking. ‘You haven’t heard her singing?’

He shakes his head. 

You bite on a nail, look at it. ‘You just have to ask her. Once she gets going, she’ll sing anything. Maybe even ‘Bear and the Maiden Fair’ if you ask nicely.’ Eye him.

His face has gone stony again. ‘All right, get the fuck out of here.’

‘Just – hurry up and get well.’ 

At least once he was on his feet again, you could have some fun.

***

**Jaime**

The foreigner’s harbour makes me feel even more nervous. I don’t recognise any banners, and there are ships from all over the damned Known World here, but even so. There aren’t too many Westerosi men with gold hands. Perhaps I should get a rather more common-looking one made.

Morro seems to know one trader’s ship and leads me over. There’s a pungent smell of seaweed and rain and rotten fish here. He throws some words up to a hulking man with one eye – I feel something of an affinity now with those who possess only one of something. At least I’m not Varys, I think, though there’s not much chance of my cock going much of anywhere it shouldn’t these days. 

The man jumps down. He breathes a foul mix of wine and cooked liver our way, grinning and slapping Morro on the back. The little man manages to stay upright and gabbles on in a tongue that is not Braavosi. The captain glances at me and I slip my hand further into my cloak. And decide to keep my mouth shut.

Words are swapped quickly, and there’s _Westeros_ slipped in there amongst them. And, I’m fairly sure, _Lannister_. I finger my sword.

Morro looks at me and his eyes are strange, questioning. This doesn’t look to be going well. I grasp the hilt properly underneath my cloak and glare at him. Perhaps he is a traitor too. It’s all been a trap, just prolonged for a couple of weeks so that we drop our guard a little.

‘Story from Westeros,’ Morro says, and leads me a little further away. The fat captain watches us go with a belch.

‘Yes?’ I say, quietly. Tense, ready as I can be.

‘Not good,’ he says, and I think, perhaps not then, and prepare myself for news of Winterfell, sacked once more, of my family ruling roughshod as they ever did, perhaps of the bastard Stark boy at the Wall killed.

‘Father Tywin,’ he says, and I blink at hearing his name. I stop, turn to Morro. ‘Father Twyin dead,’ says Morro.

There’s an eerie, high sound, the sound of gulls circling over fish, yet there are no gulls here. It is in my skull.

I nod at him, turn, and walk very quickly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one a-coming pretty soon!
> 
>  **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME-TIME RADIO HOUR** :
> 
> I'm not even sure who this is for. Let's say Brienne! Listening to it moodily, whilst fixing her gauntlet for the fiftieth time. Here's ['Walking In The Rain' by The Ronettes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBBys5TLxCI).


	7. Crying In The Rain

**Arya**

You are teaching Podrick and Sansa a game that Gendry taught you on the road, so long ago it seems like it can’t have happened. It involves stones and bets and curses. It took quite a while to persuade either of them to join in. It almost makes you miss the boys on the Night’s Watch. You try not to think about Gendry, and what on earth that Red Woman did with him. The world swallowed him up.

‘Come on Podrick, it’s been your turn for about three days,’ you say.

‘Sorry, my lady,’ says Podrick. He is pretending he has no idea how to play, but you are fairly sure he is bluffing.

Brienne comes into the room, frowning. ‘Is Ser Jaime not back yet?’

You glance up at her and down again, shrugging.

‘He isn’t, Lady Brienne,’ says Sansa, who is always nice to everyone, ever.

Brienne stares at the window, which looks out to back of the house and so is no help, unless Jaime is going to leapfrog twenty stone walls.

‘Would you like me to go and look for him, my lady?’ says Podrick.

Brienne stands as if she is listening for prey in a wood somewhere. ‘Not yet,’ she says, very thoughtfully.

***

**Sandor**

_Jaime’s disappeared_ , says Wolfgirl, watching me walk around the room like I’m eighty years old.

That stops me. Not quite what I expected. _Where’s he gone?_ I say.

Arya shrugs. _I don’t know, do I? Otherwise I wouldn’t have said he’d disappeared. Idiot_.

I let it go. Sit down on the bed.

 _He went to find out news of Winterfell_ , she says. _But he hasn’t come back_.

Hadn’t thought that Lannister would desert so soon. Not when he was looking so bloody noble at Saltpans, promising not to let these two out of his sight. It doesn’t sit right. 

Wolfgirl’s still talking. _Do you think he’s been kidnapped? Do you think he told them where we’re all staying? Do you think they’re going to come?_

 _Alright with the questions, girl_ , I say, and stand up again. My head reels. She looks up at me. _Get me downstairs_ , I say.

***

**Arya**

Podrick helps the Hound down the stairs, and he curses and grumbles more on every step, before lurching into the kitchen and basically falling onto a chair, breathing like a dying horse. Sansa looks surprised, and pleased, and rushes to fetch him water. He looks at it and you know he’s wishing in all the seven hells that it was wine, but he nods his thanks and drinks it in one gulp. Which also means he’s getting better, as he couldn’t even sip it a few days ago.

Brienne’s there too, looking unhappy that he’s out of bed. She hadn’t looked happy about him being upstairs, either.

‘How long’s he been gone?’ he says to her. No pleasantries.

She puts her lips together. ‘He left this morning.’ Night was falling now.

‘Where did he go?’

‘I’m not sure – to Morro’s house I expect first.’

‘Who the fuck is Morro?’

‘He’s Lord Varys’ man,’ says Sansa, and the Hound looks slightly less moody, but only for about half a breath.

‘He put us in this house,’ you say. ‘Though he should have got us a nicer one. With less dust.’

‘Know where that is? His house?’ says the Hound.

Brienne nods, curtly. 

‘Well, go on, then,’ he says to her, quite loudly, as if she’s a child. ‘Go and look for him.’

Her eyes flicker to you, and to Sansa. 

‘What are you waiting for?’ he says.

‘We always said one of us would stay with the ladies.’

The Hound looks scratchy. ‘Ay, well I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll stay with them.’

‘You’re not fit to.’

‘What does that mean?’ If he had bristles, they would be rising right now. He probably does. Ugh.

‘You’re not well.’

‘I’m well enough. Go on, look for the golden boy. Take your squire. Two swords are better than one.’

‘That leaves one sword here.’

‘It leaves two,’ he says, not looking at you, and you feel a little twinge of pride as you realise he means you. Even though his side’s split half open and your leg doesn’t work properly.

She stands for a moment longer, with all of you staring at her, then nods again and stalks into the hallway, calling for Podrick.

The Hound stares out towards the hallway, and sniffs. 

***

**Jaime**

‘How did you lose your hand, my lover?’ The woman sitting on my knee is stroking my metal hand. She speaks Common Tongue with a lilt. The whole city has a lilt right now, swooning and sinking at will. And I blink and it goes back to what it was. 

‘In a great battle,’ I say. My head is swimming. I have been into every alehouse I can find. Alehouses, and now whorehouses. Father is dead. 

‘Did you kill many men?’ Her voice is like the warm winds you get in summer at Casterly Rock. Her dark hair falls over her chest. One breast is bared.

‘All of them,’ I say, drinking again. ‘Every one.’ Father is dead. Killed. 

‘I am sure that you are a good fighter.’

I put my good hand on her breast. ‘The best. I killed the king.’ There is music somewhere, a woman singing. Red drapes. The smell of wine.

She arches a little, and moves herself further over, her fingers still on my metal hand. ‘I am sure that you did.’ She picks up one of my real fingers, the fingers that are still there, and sucks it. And then lifts my metal hand and sucks on one of those too. 

‘I can’t feel that, you know,’ I say.

‘But _I_ can,’ she says. ‘I could feel this in all sorts of places.’

I let her writhe around on my crotch a bit more. Father is dead. Killed. By my brother.

‘I want to forget,’ I say. ‘I want to forget everything.’

‘I can help you forget,’ she says, her voice like summer winds and doves. 

I swallow the last of my wine, which is about the fourteenth cup I have had today, and pat her on the bottom. She rises, and I stand, and immediately she is falling, except that it is I who has fallen, and my face is against the matted floor, which smells of lavender and faintly of piss. I roll over and vomit. 

There is a sigh from the woman and she calls someone’s name. It is good to lie down. I am so tired, and Father is dead. There are hands, pulling me up, and I try to get my sword and a fist meets my cheek.

***

**Arya**

‘He still looks terrible,’ you say.

The Hound has fallen asleep in his chair, leaning back awkwardly, his hand on his side. There’s a bit of hair in his mouth.

‘He looks better than he was,’ says Sansa, her voice very quiet.

‘Which is still terrible.’

She doesn’t say anything, just looking at him out of the sides of her eyes as if she thinks that you won’t see it.

You sigh. ‘Seriously, Sansa.’

‘What?’

‘Please tell me you don’t like him.’

She folds her arms and sits up straight. Doesn’t blush. ‘Why can’t I like him?’ she says, still much more quietly than you. ‘You like him.’

‘You know that’s not what I mean. And anyway, I don’t.’

She stares at you, and a slow smile comes over her face. You glare at the table.

***

**Sandor**

There’ve been words, the two of them, a murmur in my ears, and as I wake up properly, I hear Sansa say _liar_.

And they’re both grinning at each other, and I watch them for a moment under heavy eyelids, the fair sister and the dark one, before I blink and make a noise and they’re both looking at me, and it’s like I’ve missed the end of a joke. 

_You’ve got drool on your lip_ , says Wolfgirl. 

I sit up a bit, wipe my mouth, find nothing there. Glare at her. _He back yet_? I say.

 _No_ , they say, together.

***

**Jaime**

Wet sleep. Father. I am sure he is there, made out of rain, rain which is also Valerian steel, made into tiny slivers. And he is steel and rain and perhaps also a lion, roaring, roaring the sound of heavy rain, rain that never stops.

‘My lord?’ A boy is there, kneeling down. 

‘Podrick,’ I say. ‘You’re always there.’

He is shouting behind him. 

A woman is there. Her face is very close. ‘Jaime. Thank the gods. Are you hurt?’ 

I would like very much to be held by her. ‘That is debatable,’ I say.

Brienne is prodding me. ‘Are you hurt or aren’t you hurt?’ She flinches. ‘Gods. He’s been vomiting,’ she says to Podrick.

‘My apologies about that,’ I say. ‘I am not quite at my best.’

‘Jaime, what has happened? Were you attacked? Followed?’

‘All my own doing, I’m afraid.’ I swallow. My throat is terribly dry. 

‘What do you mean?’ She sits back on her heels. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘All day,’ I say. ‘All day, all evening and all night. First in alehouses and then in whorehouses. I suppose I was thrown out of the last one. For inappropriate behaviour.’

Her face is no longer there and I am looking at her legs. I can hear her mutter and instruct Podrick, and then both of them are pulling me up. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ she says very tightly in my ear.

‘That’s what he used to say.’

‘Who? What are you talking about?’

‘My father. You may have heard of him. Tywin Lannister.’ I lurch towards her, grab her by the shoulders and she stumbles a little before holding onto me. She is a giant rock. I find her eyes, which are large and dark and furious and bewildered. ‘He is dead now.’

I lean over and vomit again.

***

**Arya**

The door bangs. You leap up, and Brienne and Jaime and Podrick are coming towards you and Jaime is really hurt. Shit. Your heart travels very quickly upwards and you let them pass, but they don’t go into the kitchen. Instead they go straight upstairs. You can hear Jaime muttering stuff, like he’s delirious. It must be really bad.

You limp slowly back into the kitchen, where Sansa is standing. ‘Is he alright?’

‘I don’t think so,’ you say, and sit down. The Hound eyes you but doesn’t say anything.

Podrick comes down and finds you all staring at him. 

‘Is he going to die?’ says Sansa.

‘No, my lady,’ says Podrick. ‘He’ll be well, soon enough.’ He picks up a bowl.

‘What is it, then?’ you say.

‘He just needs rest,’ says Podrick, with one of his best blank faces.

‘What does that mean? Did he get stabbed?’

Podrick shakes his head and looks at the roof.

The Hound makes a noise through his closed mouth. ‘The boy’s right. He’ll be well enough.’

‘Will he?’

Podrick makes his escape, out to fetch water.

You and Sansa look at the Hound, who finally grins. ‘He’s pissed,’ he says.

***

**Jaime**

‘He’s dead, Brienne.’ I am lying down, and Brienne is tussling with my doublet.

‘I know,’ she says.

‘You don’t know. You don’t know what he was like. For so long, I admired him, wanted to please him, and – he never knew, you know. He never knew about us.’

Podrick is trying to get my boots off, and darts a look at Brienne.

‘Don’t talk about that now,’ she says, not looking at me.

‘Tyrion. How could it be Tyrion?’ I say. My brother. Podrick says something quietly to Brienne as he leaves.

Brienne turns to the door. 

‘Brienne,’ I say. ‘Don’t go. Please don’t go yet.’

Her shoulders drop and she comes back, sits on the bed so that I roll a little towards her. 

‘Brienne. I didn’t have any of them. The whores.’ I find her hand, which is warm and as smooth as damned silk and I hold it, even though she tries to pull away, at first. I hear her sigh and her hand softens and she lets me hold it and I think of Father and of Cersei and of Tyrion and of Casterly Rock and of her hand and – 

***

**Sandor**

The Tarth woman comes back downstairs. Probably tucked him up like a nice little suckling babe. 

_Is he alright_? says Sansa to her.

 _He’s asleep_ , she says. _Finally_. She stands taller, like she’s in front of the fucking king. _My apologies, my ladies, for the commotion. I did not mean to worry you. I thought it best to have him out of your company_.

Arya looks a bit disappointed. _He must have been so drunk_ , she says, looking at me. _Even more drunk than you normally get_. 

Cheeky little bitch. I haven’t touched a drop since I’ve been under this roof. I sniff. _Man can’t take it, that’s all_ , I say.

 _His father has been killed by his brother_ , Tarth says, and we all look at her. Ay, and I’ve been drunk for a lot less, I think as we sit in silence, the rain growing louder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEMETIME RADIO HOUR** :
> 
> ['Crying In The Rain', the A-HA version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-WPexVEujg) rather than the Everly Brothers original, because this is one for Jaime, who loves '80s music more than he loves Cersei, and actually stars in this video. Probably.
> 
> With apologies to Zip001 for changing my mind. Milli Vanilli will come at some point, I am sure!


	8. Only Happy When It Rains

**Jaime**

Brienne is in the kitchen, staring at an empty plate. My stomach tries to run back upstairs at the smell of cooked meat but I make myself sit down at the other end of the table.

She looks at me quite watchfully.

I put my good hand on top of my stump. I’m not sure that I can be bothered to conceal it all the time, at least not in the house. It’s not like they don’t all know I’m crippled. ‘My apologies, my lady, for my behaviour last night.’

‘Forget it, Jaime. I have.’

I was expecting a sermon. A scolding. Or at least that unyielding, sorely-disappointed-in-me look I know so well. ‘Have you?’

‘I mean -’ she stops, frowns into the air in front of us. ‘I shan’t be thinking any less of you for it.’ I am not sure I deserve that. She looks at me. ‘I’m sorry about your father, Jaime.’ There’s no express kindness in her voice, simply the bald fact of it, but I appreciate it nonethless.

I sigh. ‘I hated him, in the end. But that didn’t mean I didn’t -’ 

She gazes back. ‘I know.’

‘I don’t know what it means for Tyrion, though. They’ll kill him.’

‘Are you sure that he did it?’

‘No, only that it is the news that has spread. I’m quite aware that that might not be the same thing. I asked Morro to find out more, if he could, from Varys.’ I glance at her. ‘Before my lapse of decorum.’

She nods.

I can’t help sighing. What in the gods has Tyrion let himself in for. ‘If he needs my help, I should go to him. He is my brother. I’m the only one who cares for him.’

She stares at me for a little longer, and nods again. 

***

**Arya**

Jaime is still sitting in the same place he has been all morning, looking haggard and old. You sit down opposite him and he blinks, sits a little straighter, smiles. It’s not a very good attempt.

‘Do you want some wine?’ you say.

‘I don’t think I should have wine for a little while,’ he says. His skin is the colour of silver birches. He looks very sad.

You fill up his goblet with water from the jug. He murmurs a thanks.

‘He was very clever. Your father. Most of the time.’

He gazes at you. ‘Yes, I’d almost forgotten. You being under his nose.’

‘I should have killed him.’ If you meet Jaqen again, you won’t make the same mistake. You’ll make sure the people who really need to be killed are killed.

He doesn’t even look surprised, or shocked. ‘Yes, perhaps you should have.’

‘How did your brother kill him?’

‘There’s no word of that yet. But I imagine he must have caught him by surprise.’

‘I’m sorry if it was Tyrion. I mean, if it means you lose your brother as well.’ Jaime doesn’t say anything. ‘Brienne’s the only one with a father now,’ you say. ‘Out of all of us.’ You were fairly sure Podrick’s wasn’t around either.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Orphans, almost the lot of us,’ and stares out of the window again.

***

**Sandor**

Sansa finds me outside, sitting on a low wall. First time I’ve been outside in days and days. Weather’s just the same. Pissing like a bladderless old drunk.

 _How are you_? she says. 

I’m the luckiest man alive to have this woman nursing me, or the unluckiest, because every time I look at her I feel like throwing up. _It’ll heal_ , I say. And it is, slowly. Skin’s remembering itself, and I’m feeling a bit more alive. Except when she’s looking at me like that.

 _It is healing, but I don’t mean that_ , she says. More and more she’s been trying to talk, not about the endless pissing rain, or the city and what she’s seen, or the squire’s latest bloody miracle in the kitchen, but of things that are under the skin, that you have to scrape away to get at.

I don’t say anything.

 _I know why you wanted to stay there_ , she says. _Your brother was killed, and not by your hand, or not enough_.

I sigh.

 _But you can’t blame Lady Brienne for that_ , she says, sitting on the wall next to me.

I bloody can, I think, and don’t say. She’s seen the fact that we haven’t much spoken, Tarth and I, since being under this roof, without it coming out as if a fight’s about to happen. 

_If she hadn’t come, we’d all be dead_ , she says. _All of us. Jaime, and you, and Arya, and me. Or worse than dead_.

Gregor, saying the words _hollowed-out_ as he ran his eyes over them both at that Saltpans inn. I’ve killed him over and over in my mind for saying that.

She doesn’t give up, picking away like she does with her little needle. _Do you feel – alone_? she says. _I mean, on your own, as a Clegane_?

 _Not alone exactly_ , I say. 

Her skirt’s touching my leg. _Is that why you came here_? she says.

I swallow. _Another sword isn’t going to hurt_ , I say. _Isn’t going to hurt_ you, _anyway_. I look up, feel the prickle in the air that never goes away. _And I get to see the rainiest fucking city in the Known World_. I get a bit lost thinking about stabbing people for her, the guts and the screaming, and don’t realise the rain’s got heavier. Probably heard me mentioning it, decided to come down faster, just to curse me. _You should go inside_ , I say.

She puts her face up into it, screws her nose up, and for a breath I see her sister in her. There’s not much that holds them together, but that’s one thing. _I like it out here_ , she says. 

***

**Arya**

‘They don’t choose who to kill. They are told by someone else. But then they kill them, really bloody well. You don’t even know they’re there until you’re already dead.’

You are hopping along through a sidestreet, trying not to slip on the cobbles. Podrick walks alongside you, and Brienne about as near as she can be without flattening you. You managed to persuade them to come out with you, saying Jaime needed space – probably so that he could throw up again into a bucket. And now you were looking for Jaqen again. 

Morro had told you about a big temple where the Many-Faced God was worshipped, and as soon as he described it, you knew which one it would be. The place by the Braavosi’s harbour that you had seen when you had first docked, a huge stone building that would lay great shadows all around it, if the sun ever bloody shone.

‘I’m not sure it is right to simply kill who one is told to kill, if you do not believe in it yourself,’ says Brienne.

‘What, so you’ve never done something you were commanded to do that you didn’t think was right?’

‘I haven’t, my lady.’

She is so bloody righteous about everything. Still, you have to admit that you do feel pretty safe with Brienne breathing down your neck. She looks unbelievably massive in her black armour, which Podrick has polished about ten thousand times. 

Podrick stops first, and you bump into him. ‘Sorry, my lady,’ he says.

There it is. A colossal stone square, one that could flatten twenty giants. Pillars like elephant legs and steps leading up from the dock. And a huge door, one side black, one side white. You feel a knot of excitement in your belly. The House of Black and White.

You all stand there looking at it, whilst people walk around you, and the rain trickles down your neck. You begin to hop up the steps.

Brienne is there immediately. ‘Lady Arya, what are you -’

‘I didn’t come to have a picture painted of it,’ you say. 

There is a moon in the middle of the door, perfectly split into the two colours. You run your fingers along the white side, half-expecting a great alarm bell to begin ringing. ‘Weirwood,’ you say.

‘And ebony,’ says Podrick.

There are no windows. So you knock.

Brienne hisses at you. ‘Lady Arya.’

You ignore her, lean on your crutch, rattle your fingers on it a bit. Knock again, a bit louder.

Brienne gives a sigh from behind closed lips that probably people in Pentos can hear. She is holding the hilt of her sword. Perhaps you can just ask her to cleave the door in. She’s strong enough.

A bit longer. Nothing.

‘No one is there,’ you say, disappointed, and turn, and as you do so there is a click and a small a scrape and the door has opened by a sliver.

There is an old man in a cowl. He has a bald head like Varys, except his eyebrows are bright white. 

‘Valar morghulis,’ you say.

He looks at you. Seagulls make sounds like babies being killed in the air above you. ‘Valar dohaeris,’ he says back, a voice that has had nails dragged through it, and you feel a strange sense of power and joy that for the first time, someone has answered you. 

You take a breath. ‘I look for Jaqen H’ghar,’ you say in limping Braavosi, the words that you had got Morro and Sansa to teach you.

The old man’s eyes are deep rotten tree trunks. He looks at Brienne, and Podrick, and back at you. ‘There is no one here of that name,’ he says, slowly, in the Common Tongue.

You blink. Think about describing Jaqen, and realise that that is ridiculous, seeing as last time you saw him he had just changed his face. ‘He is one of you,’ you say. ‘I know he is. He might have a different name.’

‘There is no one of any name here,’ the man says, and begins to shut the door.

You stick the end of your crutch in to keep it wedged open. ‘I know he’s here.’

He looks down at it. ‘A mistake,’ he says, and you are not sure if he is talking about Jaqen or the fact that he cannot shut the door on you.

‘Lady Arya, your friend is not here. Terribly sorry,’ Brienne says, as if you have all called round to a friend’s house for rosemary tea. ‘Come on,’ she says, and removes your crutch from the door. 

***

**Jaime**

Clegane barges into the room as if he’s twenty mad oxen, sits down holding his side.

‘How is that?’ I say.

He glances down, sniffs. ‘Getting better.’

Yes, I think, well it would while you’ve got a statuesque princess constantly at your side. Though I wouldn’t put it past him to feign worse injury just to keep her dabbing his brow.

He makes a noise like an old bull being taken out to slaughter. ‘So the Imp killed the Lion.’

I look out of the window. ‘So it is being said.’

‘Must have had help.’

He never thought much of Tyrion. I wonder about telling him again that he’s the best of all of us, and decide not to bother. ‘If my brother did kill him, he is perfectly capable of doing it on his own.’ Still, I have no idea how. 

‘You going to avenge him?’

‘Who? My father?’ I shake my head. ‘Gods, no.’ How little he knows of me. I wonder what is happening there now. Whether Tommen has more power, or less, with Father gone. Whether Cersei will rule more strongly again, behind the rosy cheeks and big eyes of our son. And whether my little brother still has that scarred head on his shoulders.

Sansa comes in, and she looks perfectly pleased that we’re talking to each other, as if she’s set us up on a leisurely hunting picnic. ‘How are you?’ she says to me, and puts her hand on mine. Clegane looks at it like he’d chop it off if he had his sword nearby.

‘I’ll repair,’ I say. ‘My apologies again, my lady, for -’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It wasn’t my intention to worry anyone,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘I understand. I am sorry, Ser Jaime, about your father.’ There’s far more grace than she has any need to have, seeing as she’s talking about someone who oversaw the destruction of most of her family.

She removes her hand from mine and sits down with us. A strange trio, I think, not for the first time. But then, all six of us are a rather curious troupe. 

I eye Clegane, who seems a little less in the mood to spar now. ‘My father took you in when you were young, didn’t he?’ I say. ‘At Casterly Rock?’

He shifts, looks a little uncomfortable. ‘Ay. I was ten. After my father had gone.’

‘And he had you fighting by – what age?’

‘Killed my first man at ten and two.’ He glances over at Sansa, who is sitting very straight, looking between us both.

‘Yes, well, he was never one for gentle rearing,’ I say. ‘What made you leave your own House so soon?’

Clegane takes on an even darker look than usual. ‘If you need to ask that, you didn’t spend enough time with my brother,’ he says.

‘I see.’ And I think of the Mountain, and everything he did in the name of my father, and feel rather sick. I rise. ‘If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll take my leave. I have not quite slept enough yet.’ 

I crash up the stairs, hoping I won’t vomit for the third time today, hearing their voices continue behind me.

***

**Sandor**

_Do you think he’ll be alright_? she says.

 _Ay_ , I say. _He’ll live_. There’s a lot in that fucking family I don’t understand, but it’s plain to see that Lannister’s half glad he’s out of his father’s shadow.

She’s looking at me, careful. I shift. _I didn’t know that about you_ , she says. _That you went there when you were so young_.

Ay, well I somehow haven’t managed to tell you my whole life story yet, I think, eyeing the colour in her cheek. She’s getting more full in the face, now she’s not starving in the woods like an animal - more like she was before. Except she looks older, more bloody – womanly. Lannister’s lurched up to his room, probably to chuck his guts up again. I swallow. Might as well make the most of her, while the house is quiet.

 _Someone tells me you’ve been singing_ , I say, and straight away feel like turning round and gutting something, just to show I’m still half a warrior and not a bloody green boy. 

She looks up, quick, half a smile on her face, puzzled. _It’s nice to sing again_ , she says, and looks like she has an itch. _I didn’t for a while_. The smile disappears, like a ripple in water fading, and I wonder what she’s thinking of. Being holed up in King’s Landing, fearing another beating. Me not stopping it. I imagine stabbing myself about a thousand times. _Did anyone ever sing to you_? she says.

 _Ay_ , I say. _My mother_.

She’s staring at me, though I look straight ahead. _Did she die when you were young_? she says, the words soft.

 _Ay_ , I say. As did everyone, I think, but don’t feel like telling her all that now. _Who do you sing to here_? I say. 

_No one_ , she says. _Just to myself. Arya teases me_.

 _She’s just jealous_ , I say, folding my arms. 

_How do you know_? she says.

 _Heard her singing once_ , I say, _when she thought I wasn’t listening, on the road. It was like a pigeon being eaten by a dying cat_.

She laughs despite herself, a little rush of breath that lights up her whole face. _Don’t_ , she says. _That’s mean. Anyway, how do you know that I don’t sound like that_? She shakes her head, laughs again, and her face is so damned bloody different when it’s real laughter, not the stuff she would pretend to do once upon a time.

 _I know_ , I say. _Heard you once, singing to her, after the fight with the Mountain Clans_. I’d hung outside the room, listening, put my head round the door to find Wolfgirl asleep and her staring at me. 

_I remember_ , she says and gives me that look again, as clear and blue as fucking morning sky, and I feel like she’s got a paring knife to my chest, is peeling me open. Time slows. _What did your mother sing to you_? she says, quiet.

I try and blink the world back in. _I don’t remember_ , I say.

 _Well, if you do_ , she says, getting up, standing in front of me, close enough for me to bloody hold her sides. _Tell me, and maybe I’ll know it too. And maybe I’ll sing it for you_. She gazes at me long enough to make my mouth go dry as the Red Waste, that tiny ripple-smile coming back, or maybe I’m dreaming it, and she leaves me, me and my half-awake cock staring at each other.

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__You stomp, as much as you can stomp with one working leg, through rainy bloody fucking Braavos. Turned away by that old man – his face had been totally smooth and blank, but you knew he knew Jaqen really. You were sure of it._ _

__‘We should return, my lady.’ Brienne had been no help either. All she wanted to do was get back to see if Jaime was alright._ _

__Or maybe Jaqen was really not here on Braavos, but out in some other part of Essos, talking to girls who wanted to be fighters, giving them coins. He probably had loads of them tucked up his sleeves. ‘I don’t want to go back yet. There’s nothing to do.’ You almost trip up on a cobblestone and Podrick catches you by the arm._ _

You shake him off. ‘Get _off_ , Podrick. You don’t have to be my bloody septon. If I fall, I fall. I just have to learn.’ That’s what the Hound would say, anyway.

__He releases you very gently. ‘So sorry, my lady.’_ _

__‘Will everybody stop fucking calling me that?’ you say, too loudly, enough that people turn round._ _

__‘The girl from Westeros does not need to shout.’_ _

__You stop trying to shove Podrick. Look around._ _

__A young man is sitting on the wall just above you, his legs stretched out. A long, green cloak and short black hair. ‘It is easy enough to recognise her without this loud voice of hers,’ he says, holding the piece of fruit that he is eating away from his mouth._ _

__You’d know that way of speaking anywhere._ _

__‘Lady Arya?’ Brienne’s sword is already half out of her scabbard._ _

__You stand properly, peer up into the rain. His skin is paler, his cheekbones higher. A different face from the one he changed into. ‘Jaqen?’_ _

__He takes another bite of his pear and looks mildly over your heads. ‘Who is Jaqen? There is no Jaqen.’ Even though he looks quite different, and his voice is higher, his words have the same lazy movement to them, like a cat curling up._ _

‘It _is_ you.’

__He does not smile, or nod, or shake his head. ‘These are companions of yours?’_ _

__You turn round, to where Podrick is squinting and Brienne is looking ready to pummel, maim, kill. ‘Oh. Yes. This is Podrick, and this is Brienne.’ You try and remember your manners, for once. ‘Lady Brienne of Tarth.’_ _

__His eyes flick down. ‘A lady is a warrior.’_ _

__Brienn’s elbow is still out, her hand still hovering. ‘Yes. A lady is.’_ _

__His eyes move as if he is drawing her with a very delicate layer of ink. ‘A fine one.’_ _

__‘Indeed.’ There is a tiny bit of careful suspicion in her voice._ _

__He smiles then, a smile made by a craftsman. ‘I pray to the Many-Faced God that we never meet in battle.’_ _

__Brienne shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Yes, well, you probably should.’_ _

__‘It would be a challenge to kill a lady such as you. As beautiful as the pale morning sun.’_ _

__‘Well, um. Right.’ She looks at you slightly helplessly for half a second._ _

__You know Podrick is smiling even though his face is perfectly plain._ _

__You are grinning when Jaqen, or whatever he feels like calling himself today, looks at you. His eyes are blue with little tangerine-coloured flecks in them. ‘I did not think it would be the last time we would meet, on that hill.’_ _

__‘Me neither.’_ _

__‘What can a man do for a girl?’_ _

__You had just wanted to find him. You hadn’t really thought that far ahead. ‘I don’t know. Teach me to be like you.’_ _

__Brienne is suddenly breathing heavily in your ear, the way a big milk-cow would. ‘Lady Arya, we haven’t discussed this.’_ _

‘It’s all very well training with Podrick,’ you say to her, and Podrick raises his eyebrows in a sort of mildly hurt surprise. You screw your nose up at him before nodding up towards the wall. ‘I want to be like _him_.’ 

__Jaqen is looking up above you all, as if he is not listening. ‘A girl cannot be like me. A girl can only be who she is. She has other things to do. And other companions.’_ _

__You have had literally nothing to do except whack your sword-hilt near Podrick’s ear, watch Sansa chop vegetables while saying Braavosi words over and over, and pick word-fights with the Hound. You lean on your crutch. ‘Can’t I train with you?’_ _

__‘It is not a simple thing that you ask. A girl would have to live in the House of Black and White. Give up everything they know. Everyone.’_ _

__‘Yes, well, I shan’t be allowing that, I’m afraid,’ says Brienne, who is the most annoying person in the entire Known World._ _

__‘You’re not my keeper,’ you say to her._ _

__‘In this case, Lady Arya, I am.’_ _

__You scowl at the sky, which scowls back._ _

__‘You’re welcome to discuss it with your sister, and with Ser Jaime, and -’ you can hear her make herself say it. ‘Clegane, when we return.’_ _

__You sigh and turn back to Jaqen, who is watching Brienne again as if she is a very expensive horse. ‘How can I find you?’_ _

__His eyes slide to yours. They are the colour of summer pools. ‘A man will always find you,’ he says._ _

__***_ _

__**Jaime** _ _

__‘I found Jaqen. I totally found Jaqen. Though that’s not his name anymore.’ Arya is back, having slammed the door hard enough for my head to essentially split itself down the middle._ _

__I don’t get up. ‘Your Faceless friend?’_ _

__Brienne ducks into the kitchen, and Podrick after her, red-faced as usual._ _

__‘Yes.’ Arya looks extraordinarily pleased with herself._ _

__‘How was he?’ I suppose it won’t hurt to have a local fighter on our side, if he really was someone to trust._ _

__‘Informal,’ says Brienne._ _

__Arya spins around on her crutch. ‘He totally had a fancy for Brienne,’ she says, mostly to Sansa._ _

__‘Did he now,’ I say, in what I hope is an extremely offhand manner._ _

__‘Lady Arya, that’s quite enough,’ says Brienne._ _

__Arya half-lands in a chair. ‘Enough of what? I’m just stating a fact. He always speaks nicely to everyone, even though he could kill them just by basically looking at them, but he never said anything like that to me.’_ _

__‘Like what exactly?’ I say._ _

__‘Absolutely nothing,’ says Brienne, quickly and loudly._ _

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__‘You’re so bad.’ Sansa is hugging her straw pillow in bed, facing you. Her knees are touching yours._ _

__‘What?’ you say._ _

__Her voice is very low. ‘Teasing Jaime about Brienne and Jaqen.’_ _

__‘It wasn’t teasing. It did happen.’ You roll onto your back, but turn your head back to her. ‘Sort of.’_ _

__‘Can you trust him? Jaqen, I mean. He _is_ an assassin.’_ _

__‘Jaime’s an assassin. The Hound is an assassin. Brienne is an assassin.’ You are an assassin. ‘Jaqen killed three men for me. I should have got him to kill Tywin but at least he’s dead now anway.’_ _

__She nods. ‘Do you really want to be like him?’_ _

__You shrug. ‘He said I would have to give up everyone I knew.’_ _

__‘Then please don’t, Arya.’ Sansa scrunches closer. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’_ _

__‘I’ll think about it,’ you say, trying to imagine telling the Hound you were disappearing, after he’d half-rotted coming over here. ‘Anyway, Jaime is totally in love with Brienne,’ you say, quite loudly._ _

__‘ _Ssshhh_. Not in love. I don’t think. Not yet.’_ _

__‘How do you know? He looks at her like he wants to take all her clothes off, which he’d have to do really slowly, now that he’s only got one hand. He’d probably have to get Podrick to help.’ Jaime looks at Brienne like the Hound looks at Sansa, you think and for once don’t say. Podrick’s basically the only man in the house who doesn’t look at someone like he wants to have sex with them._ _

__‘You’re bad,’ she says again, grinning._ _

__‘Someone has to be,’ you say, and shut your eyes, thinking of Jaqen’s new eyes, and his hair, and how one day you might be like him, in your own way._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Crimbles to all from Brienne, who has gone off carol singing (she sings tenor), Sandor, looking grumpy in a Santa hat, Jaime, still out buying Brienne extremely lavish and inappropriate presents, Sansa, who is finishing off her homemade presents to be placed in her own-crafted Christmas stockings, Arya, who is on her Playstation in the corner shouting to Podrick about when the dinner will be ready, and Podrick, who is putting the finishing touches to a large turkey with all the trimmings.
> 
>  **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS RADIO THEME TIME HOUR** :
> 
> Arya's turn! She digs Shirley Manson and Garbage, so here is ['Only Happy When It Rains.'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpBFOJ3R0M4)


	9. The Wind And The Rain / Two Sisters

**Sandor**

_I’ve remembered_ , I say.

Sansa is outside, staring up at the sky with a bundle of clothes in her arms. There’s been a break in the rain, which is a bloody miracle, though’s the wind’s up instead. _Remembered what_? she says.

 _What my mother used to sing_ , I say. Sniff. _One of them anyway_.

She looks pleased. Curious. _What is it_? she says.

 _Can’t recall it all properly_ , I say. _Was about two sisters, as it happens. Something about the wind and the rain at the end of each verse_. I nod upwards. _Listening to the bloody racket coming down most of the time didn't hurt_. She’s looking like she’s trying to think of it. _One of them drowns the other_ , I say. Ay, bloody cheerful story for me to choose. Fuck it. Never went for the pathetic stuff, even then.

She doesn’t look shocked. Her face lifts. _Oh, I know it_ , she says. _I think. I don’t remember the wind and the rain bit, but I do know one about a sister who drowns the other_.

I nod, too much. Swallow. _Going to sing it for me, then_?

The wind blows half her hair across her face. _I will_ , she says, sweeping it back again with one hand, and I imagine doing that, having a fistful of it. _I have to – I said I’d help Podrick with some washing. It’ll give me a chance to try and remember it properly_. And she grins at me as she walks past, and though I’ve given her the room, I swear she’s a little closer than she needs be.

***

**Jaime**

Brienne and I are out with Morro again, looking for news of Westeros. So far we’ve learnt that the winter is fully sweeping in now – there’s that to be thankful for here at least, even if it constantly rains – and that Stannis has moved north from Dragonstone with a large army. There’s nothing more of King’s Landing than what I know already, nothing more of my brother. 

It has all seemed very safe so far. Though I shouldn’t let my guard down because of that. But Clegane’s up and about, just about, telling Arya her sword-hold is wrong as she fights with Podrick in the yard, and I’ve managed to persuade Brienne to get out with me for once. I’m in rather better shape than when we were last outside, with her finding me dribbling outside a whorehouse. 

‘Well, at least has stopped raining,’ I say.

‘Mmm,’ says Brienne, glaring about her as if every fence post is about to attack her.

No small talk, then. I haven’t forgotten how she held my hand the other night, though it seems that she has.

‘Lovely lady.’

I wheel round. Some tall fellow is standing far too close. ‘All right, that’s quite enough of that,’ I say.

He looks very cool, unflustered by my armour, my sword. ‘A man cannot greet a lady in his city?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ I say, wondering how quick he’ll be.

‘Jaime, stop,’ says Brienne. ‘I think it’s Arya’s friend.’ She steps closer to him, frowning. ‘Jaqen?’

‘A man’s name changes with the wind,’ he says. How irritatingly cryptic.

‘This is the man who was wooing you?’ I say.

‘He wasn’t wooing me.’ She scrutinises him. ‘He looked rather different last time.’

‘In what way?’

‘Younger. Slimmer. His eyes were more blue than green.’

Perfect. She’s in love with a man who can change his face, and his shape, and probably his cock, just to suit the lady in question. Damn it.

‘Well, you certainly do find people very quickly,’ she says to him, putting a hand on her hip.

The man looks at his nails, which are fine-pared. Smooth, tapered hands, and two of them. ‘It is not hard. To see such a person as yourself.’ He is very subtle about it, but he looks Brienne up and down as if she’s a bloody courtesan.

‘What are you saying?’ I say, stepping forward.

‘A man has said all he needs to say,’ he says. ‘If you need me, I will know. That is all.’ He walks away, and it is as if his cloak becomes other people, blurs himself. I blink and then he’s not there at all.

Brienne is looking after him. ‘What a curious man,’ she says, and I swear there is the faintest pinch of red on her cheekbone.

***

**Arya**

‘Cunt-face.’

‘Um, shit-for-breeches.’

‘… Dung-breath?’

‘ _Podrick_.’ You throw a stone at him. The three of you are playing the stones-and-curses game again, and Podrick is being deliberately rubbish. If the Hound was downstairs he would obviously destroy all of you.

Podrick smiles, even though it hits him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, my lady, I was trained to have a polite demeanour, as a squire, I mean.’

‘That doesn’t mean you don’t know curses,’ you say. ‘Even Sansa is better than you.’

Sansa grins and looks so pleased she might burst.

‘And _your_ cursing is very impressive, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lady,’ says Podrick to you.

‘Thank you very fucking much.’

He smiles again, and isn’t blushing, for once in his entire life.

‘You had better not be just pretending to be useless,’ you say.

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He glances outside. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my ladies, I should start preparing some food.’

‘Why are you always doing everything?’ you say. ‘You don’t have to. You should just ask us to do more.’

‘I’m a squire, my lady,’ he says, getting up. ‘It’s what I do. I’m happy to serve you. You all.’

‘We’re very grateful, Podrick,’ says Sansa. ‘For everything you do to help.’ Her toe is nudging you under the table.

‘Yes,’ you say. ‘Your food is pretty good, to be honest.’

His face lights up. ‘Thank you very much, my lady. My ladies.’

Sansa watches him go, grinning in a strange, dreamy way. 

‘What?’ you say.

‘Nothing,’ she says, looking at you in a way that means _something_.

You look at the door. ‘Do you like Podrick?’ That would be a surprise. All she ever did was look at the Hound in a way that made you want to throw up. Maybe she had suddenly remembered how old and disgusting he was.

‘No, of course not,’ she says. ‘Not like that. He’s a very fine person. We’d all be lost without him. But -’ and she looks like a dancing imp in a book again.

‘What?’

Her smile gets wider as she leans forward, whispers. ‘He likes you.’

‘No he doesn’t. What? I mean, we like each other, he helps me train -’ You hit her, quite hard on the arm.

‘ _Ow_ ,’ she says, and doesn’t stop grinning.

‘I can’t believe you would say that. Why would you say that? You’ve spoilt everything.’ You shudder. ‘Urgh.’

She watches you, shaking her head, and you put your head in your hands and wish you had never come to Braavos, and never ended up living in this stupid house with this ridiculous collection of idiots.

***

**Jaime**

Morro is beckoning us towards a blacksmith’s furnace at the corner of a market near the foreigner’s harbour.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

‘You not need me,’ he says, and gestures towards a young man. ‘Westeros boy.’

I look about. There’s only the one that Morro is pointing out and a much older man, greasy as anything, shouting Braavosi at him. It doesn’t look like a plot. We walk over.

The smithy’s a brawny lad with a peasant’s demeanour about him. Terribly bright eyes gleaming out from a face covered in dirt and firesmoke.

‘M’lord,’ he says, nodding at us a little warily. ‘M’lady. Are you wanting swords made?’

‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘How long have you been in the city?’ 

He looks about him. ‘A while, m’lord.’

‘It’s good to hear the voice of a fellow countryman, that’s all,’ I say, and smile at him.

He nods again.

‘Do you get much news? Of Westeros?’ 

He wipes his forehead with the inside of his arm. ‘Only a little, m’lord. I try to keep my head down, to be honest.’

‘Well, you probably still get more than I. What have you heard?’

He furrows his brow, and still looks very suspicious. Nervous. ‘Just that the winter’s getting hard. And King Joffrey’s dead. There’s war still.’

‘Yes, well, that’s not exactly fresh information,’ I say and see my son again, purpling, choking his last, violent words. 

‘Well, I’m not sure what you’re after, m’lord,’ he says. ‘And news of kings wasn’t exactly my meat and wine, even when I was back there.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say, and begin to turn. He’s next to useless.

‘And can I ask you, m’lord, m’lady, what you know?’ he says to my back. ‘About anything – further north? Or in the Riverlands?’ 

I turn back, catching Brienne’s glare, as if I need her to tell me not to give us away. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to know either of us. ‘Us? Oh, very little. We’ve been away from Westeros for a long time. Sellswords, you see.’ 

He looks at us both, and eventually nods. ‘Well, if you ever need a new weapon,’ he says, holding up his hammer.

***

**Sandor**

_Sandor_. 

She’s there, next to me. I’d fallen asleep – still not my best. Bloody wound. 

_Ay_ , I say, sitting up properly, dragging my hand over my face as if I’ve half a hope I can smooth these fucking scars out. Never said her name out loud, I don’t think. She says mine, more and more.

She doesn’t say anything else now, though. Just opens her mouth, and – sings.

She sings me this song of the two sisters, and it’s different from the one I knew once, but who the fuck cares when she’s there, right _there_. And there’s wonder in it, it’s sort of horrible, makes me itch. She’s been this close before – she’s fucking stitched me up, had her hands on me – but to have her there, bloody singing, it’s as if she’s straddling me and riding me gently, how damned close it is. It’s all I can do not to turn and run. And at the same time I’m back to being a child again, one candle burning, my mother’s voice flickering and low like the flame.

She stops suddenly. _I know there’s more – about another man finding her and making a harp out of her bones, but I couldn’t remember it_. Her eyes are big questions.

I swallow. _You remembered plenty_ , I say. _Though it’s not the tune I know_.

 _Did your mother sing to you a lot_? she says.

 _Ay_ , I say. _To me and my sister_.

Her face changes then. Eyes turning into caves. _Your – sister_? she says, her voice trailing.

 _Ay_ , I say.

 _Is – she alive_? Her face says she already knows the answer.

I shake my head, look at the wall above her head. _Killed when I was young, and she was younger_. 

_Killed_? she says. _How_?

 _How do you think? My brother, not that I can prove it. But I know it was him_ , I say. I’d found her in her bed one cold morning, and her even even colder. Eyes staring upwards. Maester said she’s gone in her sleep, but I knew it not to be so. There was a bruise on her nose coming up before she was buried. 

I don’t say anything else. We just sit there, and I listen to her breaths, like something sewn badly together. 

She moves suddenly, puts her hand on my arm. _I’m so sorry_ , she says. _For everything that’s happened to you_.

 _I’m not the only one, am I_? I say. _To have shit come at me_. I look at her.

She shakes her head. _No, but_ – 

_It was a long time ago_ , I say. _Let’s not speak of it_. Her hand is still there, the heat of it seeping through my shirt. _I liked your song_ , I say. I’d have you sing to me every fucking morning if I had my way, I think. 

She smiles, moves her hand away and the loss of it near-bloody pains me. There’s a freckle on her nose I’ve somehow never seen before. One of a little cluster, like sand sprinkled on her. _Ser Jaime said we could go to see one of the mummers’ plays tomorrow_ , she says, her voice lifting a bit at the end, looking at me. I look back, feeling a bit blank. _You’re better_ , she says. _Will you come_? 

I’ll go anywhere you bloody want, I think, and nod.

***

**Jaime**

‘I don’t like the not-knowing,’ Brienne says, marching ahead of me. We’ve left Morro and are wending our way back.

‘Mmm.’

‘We never know when someone might be planning something. Even that boy – I still think you were too open with him.’

‘Open? I told him we were sellswords, Brienne.’

‘He had a southern tone to his voice. Why was he asking about the north?’

I shrug. ‘Don’t ask me.’

‘I mean, what is Lord Varys’ plan? Surely we should have had some communication by now?’

‘You’d think.’

‘Perhaps it would be useful to keep Jaqen in our favour,’ she says, and I feel little spines that I didn’t know I had rise up.

‘First name terms, then,’ I say.

She looks at me impatiently. ‘He doesn’t seem to carry a name as such. I have to refer to him somehow.’

‘Do you indeed,’ I say.

She shifts her weight, looks thoughtful. ‘If he does possess the sort of skills that Lady Arya says he does, I don’t see why not. The House of Black and White does have a reputation, even on the Sapphire Isle.’

I am idling behind her, picking up things from a stall. ‘We’re not enough, then? You didn’t even want me along, once upon a time.’

‘Well, as you keep saying, another sword doesn’t hurt. He seems like he might be capable.’

I snort.

She stops and I walk into her. ‘What on earth is wrong with you?’ she says. ‘You’re acting like a child.’

I try and look casual. ‘I’m acting like a concerned – a friend.’

She stares at me for a moment. ‘You can’t honestly call my behaviour towards him inappropriate. Just because he was – complimentary towards me doesn’t mean that I favour _him_.’

‘It didn’t look that way.’

She begins to turn away from me. ‘Oh, good gods.’

‘He’s younger than you,’ I say.

‘At the moment.’ The flash of dark humour she possesses is as quick as her sword.

I have to smile, then, a little bitter one. ‘Very good, my lady.’ 

Brienne takes a step back. ‘Just stop – being such a dolt.’

‘Is that what you think of me? A dolt?’

She rolls her eyes, sighs. ‘No. Not usually. Only right now.’

‘Well, what do you think of me usually?’

She shakes her head, looks at me, makes a sound like a horse that has been made to ride for three days’ solid. ‘I’m not playing your games.’

‘It’s not a game. I want to know.’ I drop my voice. ‘How you feel about me.’

‘Do we really have to do this?’

‘Yes.’

She sighs again, and everything becomes a little more still. ‘I think you’re very brave, and with backbone, for someone who has been through so much.’ She sounds like someone explaining something very simple to an extremely small child. ‘I think you have changed, for the better, since I first knew you.’

‘Have I changed enough? For you?’ 

‘For me to what?’

‘Care for me.’ 

She looks exasperated, blustery, but I wonder if she’s overdoing it a little. ‘Of course I care for you, Jaime, don’t be an idiot.’

‘Not like those girls. Not like I’m something to be protected.’ I’m calming down a little now. I really must attempt a little more decorum. More control. That smooth-tongued many-faced bastard really got my back up. ‘Like – I’m something to be -’ I purse my lips, as if trying to casually conjure up the right word. ‘Wanted.’ I give a half-smile that hopefully contains a modicum of allure.

Her eyes flee to the nearest wall. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

‘So you don’t want me,’ I say, looking for the chink in her armour. ‘You haven’t thought about me?’

She folds her arms. ‘I don’t want anyone.’ And she stalks off in the direction of the house.

Well, she didn’t answer my second question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR** :
> 
> Something a bit different today - I decided to use the English/Scottish folk ballad, Two Sisters, for Sansa's song. BECAUSE YOU CAN'T ALWAYS USE THE RAINS OF CASTAMERE. This traditional song has tons of different versions, under titles including The Wind and The Rain (Gillian Welch's version is very lovely), Binnorie,The Bows of London and The Cruel Sister. [Here's a nice article on the history of the song](https://mainlynorfolk.info/frankie.armstrong/songs/thetwosisters.html)!
> 
> And [here is me, singing Sansa's song](http://yourlisten.com/swimmingfox/two-sistersoleander) \- I used the Emily Portman version (oleander is a flower with doomy significance).


	10. Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall / Singing In The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be two chapters, but I know short chapters can be annoying... so HERE YOU GO. HOPE YOU LIKE IT.

**Jaime**

‘There are far too many people about.’ Brienne strides just in front of me. Her elbows are enough to maim. 

‘Many people is probably better than a few,’ I say. ‘We stand out less.’ That’s a fallacy, but never mind. Frankly, it’s good to get out. We have all realised that rain should not stop us doing anything, otherwise we’d all be cooped up in the house for the length of every day and night wanting to punch each other. That said, there’s a merciful break in the weather again now, with the sun declaring itself jubilantly through a sliver of cloud.

‘Or there are less people to notice when someone stabs one of us in the ribs,’ says Brienne.

‘No one is going to stab Lady Sansa in the ribs.’ Certainly not right now, I think, glancing round. Clegane walking slowly next to her, wincing, but with enough glower for me to know that a man would be staring his own intestines in the face before getting near his favoured nursemaid. I look ahead to where Arya is hopping next to Podrick, though she’s not gabbling onto him like she usually is. Even so, it’s not hard to see how protective Podrick is of her. ‘Or Lady Arya.’

‘I don’t just mean the ladies,’ Brienne says, gloomily. ‘Any of us. We’re all bloody sitting ducks.’ The rain means she has smoothed her hair back even more mannishly than her usual custom. I can see more of her face, and the patch of colour on her cheek that I fancy is very cool to the touch. 

‘It’s good to know you have a little feeling for me,’ I say, mock-absently.

‘I didn’t say that. I never said that.’

‘You didn’t _not_ say it,’ I say, squinting into the sunlight before it disappears on us. ‘It’s quite all right, Brienne. I know you’d merrily disembowel the first person who tried to attack me.’ 

Brienne makes a sound like a frustrated barn animal. ‘You’re utterly juvenile.’

I can’t help it. ‘If by juvenile, you mean with remarkably vigorous energy for a man of my years, then I thank you kindly.’

She ignores me and glances behind us. A little pulse goes in her temple.

‘What is it?’ I glance round, and find that Sansa has taken Clegane’s arm. 

‘I don’t approve,’ she says. 

‘You don’t approve of anything.’

‘Don’t be cruel. You know perfectly well what I mean.’

I look round again. Clegane looks stiff, as if there’s a smithy’s poker somewhere it shouldn’t be, and Sansa has her cloak hood up, so I can’t quite see her face. ‘He’s wounded. It’s very kind of her. And anyway, if Clegane so much as breathes wrongly she’ll take it as sign she’s failed as a healer.’ 

She tosses another look over her shoulder. ‘I should go and walk with them. Between them.’

‘Brienne, let them be.’ I’m just happy having her company. ‘We’re all fine.’

She glowers about fifty storm clouds-worth and carries on walking.

***

**Sandor**

It’s just because I’m wounded. _Shall I take your arm_? she’d said, and I’d thought sweet seven fucking hells, and I’d looked straight ahead and said _ay_.

The feel of her hand on my arm last night after she’d sung had been enough to keep me awake half the night, enough to put my cock in my hand and practically tear it off. And now the whole heat of her is pressed against me, the way I’ve dreamt, and I’m just trying to walk straight. 

And she carries on as if it’s all just everyday, this thing we’re doing, telling me about the place and where she’s bought bread and where she’s bought silks and I’m hardly listening. 

Ay, it’s my wound and my fucking old man walk, a far slower pace than I should, that’s making her do this. Her hand tucked in at my elbow. Her hip brushing against me. Fuck.

 _Look_ , she says, and points above the roofs. _That’s the House of Black and White_.

 _Oh ay_ , I say. Wolfgirl’s been ranting on about it, whether I want to listen or not.

 _If Arya went there to train, she wouldn’t be able to see any of us_ , she says, a little bit of worry stirred in there.

 _Ay, well, she’s not bloody going anywhere_ , I say, and not just to make her feel better. _Plenty of people she can be learning off instead_. Though the squire’s been teaching her wrong, but better that than being locked up in some giant fucking windowless cell with men who change faces quicker than a whore changes smallclothes. No way in hells is that happening.

She breathes a little half-laugh through her nose and puts her other hand on my forearm guard, and my heart does a jump. Maybe it’s not just the wound. _They worship lots of gods, the people that live there_ , she says.

 _So I’ve heard_ , I say, looking at those pale fingers. Trying not to think about them in my mouth. 

_Do you believe in prayer_? she says.

 _Not much, little bird_ , I say, before I can help it. Shouldn’t call her that, it feels wrong in this place, and now she’s older. _People talk as much as they like to gods, but there’ll still be death and killing and war. That never goes away, not matter how much people bloody pray._

 _Even if you don’t – think much of the gods, maybe this is a good place for you_ , she says, quiet, amongst all the noise of everyone about us. _All the gods are here. Maybe there’s one for you to worship_.

Goddess maybe, I think.

***

**Arya**

‘What are you looking at?’

‘Nothing, my lady.’ You have given up telling Podrick off about how he addresses you. You might as well demand he stop blinking, or breathing. 

Podrick had led you all to the playhouse in the cleaner part of the city. Somehow, in between making sure that everyone in the house has all their clothes washed and their stomachs full and their armour polished – even the Hound’s, though he chewed his ear off and said he didn’t want to look a fucking _girl_ – Podrick still knows the streets better than anyone else. He had stopped outside a large inn with a picture of a blue lantern on a sign above his head.

Now, standing amongst lots of common city-folk in the pit – Brienne has made you all stand against a wall, in the shadows - you watch him out of slightly narrowed eyes. Ever since Sansa said that thing about him liking you, it has been impossible to be normal around him. You can’t talk to him like you used to, or train without feeling totally embarrassed and idiotic. You can’t even tell if she is right or not – Podrick seems perfectly _Podrick_ -like to you, just as he always has been. 

‘Well, look at the play, then,’ you say to him. 

‘I was, my lady.’

Sansa is standing on the other side of him, and the Hound next to her. She held onto his arm on the walk through the city and you couldn’t quite believe it. Obviously the Hound would let her, but you’d bet a thousand silver coins that he’d never ask her to. She must have chosen to. If you ask her about it, she’ll say she was helping him walk, and she’d be a big fat bloody liar. 

You do a great, daggery sort of sigh, and watch the people in their bright clothes speak loudly, who you can’t understand anyway. You turn to him again. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No, my lady.’ Podrick furrows his brow. ‘About what?’ You just keep glaring at him. ‘Have I forgotten to do something for you?’

‘No.’

‘Is there something I can do for you?’

‘ _No_. No. Shut up.’

He nods, and clasps his hands in front of him, so bloody _squirey_. ‘Very well, my lady.’

***

**Jaime**

‘What’s happening now?’

‘Brienne, stop talking and just watch.’

‘But what’s she doing?’

‘Have you never watched a mummers’ play before?’

‘They didn’t come to Tarth,’ she says, folding her arms, still gazing suspiciously at the stage. ‘After that I had better things to do.’ 

It’s rather fun to be doing something that isn’t staring at the space where my hand should be, or casting one’s eyes about for assassins. And quite charming that she reacts so demonstrably to every turn of events onstage, starting violently at any loud noise, concentrating very hard when everyone bursts into laughter, as if by frowning she’ll understand it all. I’m still holding out hope that she might suddenly clutch onto my arm in a fit of terror. Probably unlikely.

‘Jaime.’ She nods upwards. There are raised seats on either side of the stage – the sort of place that most of us should be sitting, were it not for the fact that we’re doing our own mummer’s play of being commoners. In one box on the opposite wall, a large man is reclining, with two guards either side. 

‘That might well be the Sealord of Braavos,’ I say, quietly.

We eye him whilst trying to look like we’re still watching the play. The man holds a large white cloth to his face and coughs into it, and looks rather uninterested.

I’ve had half a mind to make our presence known to him since we’ve been here. But Brienne – and Clegane, with rather more veracity – both agreed that unless we could find out exactly where his allegiances lay, it would be folly. 

The players shout something and throw their arms upwards towards him. There are cheers, and possibly jeers, from the crowd. He – Ferrego Antaryon, if I recall Morro’s information correctly – waves his cloth and slumps back into his seat.

‘Not exactly a formidable ally, by the looks of things,’ I say.

‘Or foe,’ Brienne says. ‘Though it’s more likely it’s his swordmaster we’d be worrying about.’

‘Ah yes, the First Sword of Braavos – that’ll be him.’ A lance-thin, wiry man, his eyes on the crowd, not the stage. I move back into the shadows. ‘Even you might struggle with him, Brienne.’

‘I doubt it,’ she says, in a perfectly casual manner, and I could lean over and kiss her on that jaw of hers.

There’s a roar from the people around us. A bell has sounded and a dwarf comes onstage, walking in that barrelling way that I know is an exaggeration, and my stomach immediately begins chewing on itself. The way everyone laughs. My brother has had to fight that every day of his damned life – ridicule mixed with pity and horror. He was told at every opportunity by my father that he was to blame for the death of our mother – true of course, but then you could just as well blame my father for impregnating her in the first place.

‘Jaime?’ Brienne is looking at me. ‘Are you alright?’

I don’t blame him for doing it, if he did. If I were in his place, I might have done it sooner. Gods, Tyrion, don’t be dead, I think, and find a smile for this woman next to me. ‘I will be,’ I say.

***

**Sandor**

She never looked like this at King’s Landing, or even since. All the torchlight and candles makes her face glow, and she’s staring at the mummers and their bloody daft prancing about and shouting and there’s a child’s delight in her. I don’t know how I can ever find that again.

 _Don’t you like it_? she says, and doesn’t look over at me. Her hands have made a run for it, too – she holds the other in front of her, rubbing a finger without noticing as she watches them. I can still feel the memory of her hand tucked into my arm.

All a bit fucking refined for me. Never much liked a mummer’s play, but at least with most of them the women would have at least one tit out by now, and there’d be more people pretending to be dead, and more ale. _Not quite to my taste_ , I say.

 _Podrick said that this one was the best in the city_ , she says, and has to lean over to me a bit to be heard above the noise of everyone else watching, and I lean down to hear her. Breath on my neck. Her hood’s been brought down too, and that hair’s sliding a bit over one shoulder.

 _Bit more used to watching people in the training yard, not_ – I nod. _This_.

 _Well, I like it_ , she says, and looks bloody proud and stubborn about it, and something else, too. I swear she’s enjoying this – not just the play, but the way she’s talking to me, like – like she knows what I’m thinking. A woman who has discovered that she can make a man hard.

There’s a shout from the stage and two people fall down and fuck knows if they’re supposed to be fucking or dying. Wolfgirl is standing looking bored, her arms crossed, glaring at the squire. Well, at least someone else has got better things to be doing, too.

 _Well, you can’t blame me when I haven’t a bloody clue what any of them are saying_ , I say. 

_You should learn Braavosi, then_ , she says, airy. Slides her eyes over. There again. A cat-look in her. Gods.

 _You can understand all that_? I say.

 _No, but I can hear some words, and anyway, you can always tell more from people’s actions_. She’s staring straight ahead now, but I hear how she’s said those words, like there’s more meaning to them, and I see her throat move. A swallow. All right then. Bloody hells.

Another shout and people around us cheer and slosh their alecups. One of the men on the stage had a sword that’s now turned into a flower, which is next to bloody useless. And he puts his hand on his brow and is looking around, and Lannister and Tarth look the other way, as does Wolfgirl and the squire, and I say _look down_ to Sansa and she says _what_? and it’s too late.

He steps off the stage and up the steps and I put my hand on my sword hilt, see that the others have done the same. The mummer comes all the way up to us, to her, and he’s a young, skinny fucker with bright green eyes and I’ll fucking slam my sword into his – 

He holds out his hand. Sansa takes it. He kisses it and gives her the flower, and does a bow. 

She says a word in Braavosi and dips her knees, and I see it. A blush.

Ay, and that’s right. Actions, not words. What the fuck was I thinking.

***

**Arya**

After the mummer gives Sansa the flower, Brienne and Jaime and the Hound basically push you all outside. 

‘But it hasn’t finished,’ you say. 

‘I think I can tell you how it ends,’ says Jaime. 

‘Ay, the way it always does,’ says the Hound, who looks really cross. He must really bloody hate mummers’ plays. ‘With them all standing up, not dead after all, the fucking opposite of real life.’ He spits and Sansa glances at him.

Obviously she got the flower. Sansa. You don’t blame her, or hate her. She is far prettier than you and everyone in the Known World knows it. It might as well be written onto vellum. But for once in your life, it would be really nice to have a flower.

‘Watch your step, my lady,’ says Podrick, and you see the pothole in the street just in time and hop over it.

The Hound is walking a bit more quickly, though you’re sure it must really hurt him. He’s walked loads more today than since he first fell like a stone in the kitchen. Sansa is practically tripping over to try and keep up, and she drops the flower.

Podrick picks it up and glances at you. Don’t give it to me, you think, after all. I’m not like everyone else. 

And he doesn’t.

***

**Sandor**

_Does it ever stop raining_? she says.

She’s still walking with me, through these bastard rainy streets, ahead of the others now, and I want to shake her off. I’m a fucking idiot. Why would I ever fucking think – when there’s men like that out there, with shiny fucking smiles and flowers coming out of their arseholes – she’s no different from what I remember back in King’s Landing. Clapping Loras Tyrell, Knight of the Fucking Shite Fucking Flowers, and all the rest of them. 

_Doesn’t look like it, does it_? I say.

All this time she’s been playing nursemaid and I thought – what did I think, really? She gave me that hand, as they sailed off from Saltpans, because she knew she wouldn’t see me again. She could do it because she was safe. Leaving me something, like I’m a bloody stinking peasant, something that she’ll not miss. Fuck’s sake.

We’re near our place. I’ve walked faster than I’ve managed since being here, and we’ve lost the others.

 _You’re angry_ , she says.

 _This isn’t angry_ , I say. _You haven’t seen me angry_. She saw it plenty, I think, once upon a time. 

We get into the house. _Why don’t you tell me what it is_? she says, folding her arms, a little of the frightened-bird look she used to have.

 _Ay, because that’s what I do now, isn’t it? Tell you all my fucking feelings like a bloody girl_. I can sense it, the shadow of King’s Landing, the way I was then, winding through my veins like bad wine. 

She looks at me like I’ve punched her. And then like she might punch me back. And then a bit of both. _I’ve upset you_ , she says.

 _Don’t flatter yourself_ , I say.

She looks around, as if there are answers in the wall. _Was it the play_? she says.

 _You think you’re safe here just because you’re on the other side of some bloody water_? I say. _Going out into the city, your hair on show, any travelling Westerosi with two eyes, one fucking eye, would guess who you were. It could be anyone – the woman selling you bread, that skinny bastard giving you the fucking eye_. 

_He gave me the flower_ , she says. _I was being gracious_.

 _Ay, because that’s what you do, isn’t it_? I say. _Swanning around like you don’t touch the ground, always so damned perfect, all your pleases and thank yous and_ – 

_Just stop it_ , she says, and she’s not frightened any more. She looks like she’ll whirl into some raging stormcloud. _Just – don’t be that man. You’re not him anymore_.

 _What man_? I say, even though I know what she means. _I’m him. And you’re – you’ll never bloody be any different either_. And I feel tired just saying it. My old self is there, and it’s winding out of me at the same time.

Her mouth falls open and she bites her lip, looks furious. _Why did you come here, then_? she says. _If I madden you so much_.

I don’t say anything. The fight’s not in me. 

She asks me again. _I said, why did you come here_? There’s wetness in her eyes, but she doesn’t let it fall. 

_Told you all a hundred times_ , I say. _Figured I’d lend you an extra sword after all. Three swords are better than two_.

Her breathing’s slowing, and her eyes are like search-torches, looking for some lost, drowning sailor. I look at my fingernails, look back at her. 

_Arya said_ – she straightens herself, as if she’s had air siphoned into her, making her the tallest she can be. _Arya said that you liked me_ , she says, slowly, carefully, finishing the sentence she maybe meant to start all that time ago ago, back at that camp in the Middlelands, me on watch, watching only her.

I want to disappear. I want to crack that door in two to get out, get as far away as possible. Cut a few throats on the way. It takes every last grain in me to stay where I am, to say what I say next. _Ay, and what of it_? I say. _What if it was true_? It comes out bitterly. 

There’s the slightest widening of her eyes, like the inching up of sunrise if you’re watching closely. 

She was expecting denial. Expecting me to turn monstrous, angry, as I used to. Something in me feels a strange sort of victory. A brutal kind, the kind that is like a mad monk taking chunks out of his own back with a cat ‘o’ nine tails. _You didn’t think this through_ , I say.

She is so still, as if all the breath has gone from her, is roaring round some mountain valley somewhere. Her lips are close together. I see her swallow. _If it were true_ , she says, very quietly, like a strand of wheat in the wind, _I’d tell you that I liked you back. Didn’t you know that by now_?

Victory crumbles. The mad monk stops whipping. The wind’s in my ears. Hurricanes. Never in a thousand – even with the movement she’d made on the boat, even with everything – I feel my arm begin to come up, my hand, of its own will, nothing to do with me, and I let it fall. Make it fall.

And then she’s picking it up again, her small hand cupping round my knuckles, and she’s bringing it up, up to her cheek, knowing that that is where it had wanted to go. 

My hand on her cheek.

Her fingers are so light on me, just closed over mine, the husk of a seed. The corner of her mouth is on the heel of my hand. Her little finger slots between my thumb and forefinger. Thumb curls under my little finger. Our other fingers slowly move until they are all intertwined. She’s looking at me, waiting, and I feel like I could stay there forever. Someone could bloody paint us.

I drop my hand, her fingers still all tangled up in it. _Come outside with me_ , I say, and my voice sounds like cart-wheels have run over it.

There’s the faintest breath of panic in her face. 

_Not for that_ , I say. _Just – come outside_.

***

**Jaime**

‘They were only just ahead of us, weren’t they?’ says Brienne. 

We’ve let our pace dwindle, with Arya a little tired now, traipsing through the city on her crutch. We should have taken a horse out, but it only draws more attention to her.

‘He always stomps off when he’s in a foul pissing mood,’ she says now, sounding not a little stormy herself. 

‘It was a mistake, to go out. It might be a sign, a naming, somehow, that player giving the flower to Lady Sansa. Perhaps they’ve spies on us right now.’ Brienne looks around.

‘We’ll pass judgement when we’ve arrived back,’ I say. Someone has to remain calm.

We turn the corner to our little cobbled alleyway. The rain’s harder than ever.

‘My lady?’ says Podrick to Brienne, holding a rather drooping flower up. Arya is stabbing the stone wall with her crutch.

‘Oh dear gods, Podrick, throw it away,’ Brienne says, and barges her shoulder into the door.

***

**Sandor**

I haven’t let go of her hand and she hasn’t pulled away. I lead her through the back of the house and outside, to a shadowed wall round the corner and put her back up against it, careful as I can. We’re under an awning and there’s the smell of hay, dark and flowered and near-rotting. I hold her side and she lets out a tiny breath, as if she’s been let out of the first bit of her corset.

To – fuck. To have her say that. I’ve dreamt of her saying all sorts of things, of filth pouring out of that mouth, all _I need your cock I need you in me fuck me bloody take me please harder more harder_ , and all it took was _I’d tell you that I liked you back_.

Neither of us is saying a damned word. The night is thick with quiet. I lower my cheek onto the crown of her head, listen to her breathing, dark abysses in between each one. Her side is so warm, her heat seeping through to my palm like boiled oil.

We seem to move our heads apart at the same time, whilst our bodies shift closer. My mouth’s at her eyebrow. It’s like there’s a pull of something, a dark magic between her mouth and mine, and we know it’s coming, but we don’t quite dare, either of us. 

Slowly she tilts her face up, and slowly mine comes down. Slowly. Never felt so tall. 

Her mouth. Her _mouth_. We’re kissing and I don’t quite remember when it started, only know that each time our lips never quite come apart, like they mustn’t or we’d die. I’m stealing her breath, praying I’m doing it right enough. Tasting her. Fuck.

A step away, a small one. The rain’s barrelling down, coming off in streams just behind me. She’s still pressed into the wall. I’m still holding her, and feeling like I’ve just fucked a woman all night long, a woman who’s leached all the blood from me, all the – everything.

 _Never much kissed a woman before_ , I say, and my throat’s dry, half-cracked.

Her eyelids are heavy, like she’s just woken up. _Nor I_ , she says, voice coming from way down in a dream.

I laugh then, and she starts. _Not like that_ , she says. _I mean_ – 

_I’d pay good coin to see that_ , I say, very low and very quiet.

 _Stop it_ , she says, but I know she doesn’t mind the joke.

A window slams shut somewhere. Voices. I can feel the slow, heavy spell losing its edges. 

_I should go_ , she says. A trace of ruefulness in there. 

I want to steal her away right now, find some tiny room full of blankets and not much else, lock her up in it. _Ay_ , I say. She loosens herself from under my palm, shifting away just a little. _Listen_ , I say. _I don’t want the others knowing about this_.

She looks almost hurt. 

_Not_ – not yet, I think, but don’t say, because that suggests there might be more and I daredn’t even – 

***

**Arya**

Sansa lies down beside you, on her back. 

‘Where have you _been_?’ you say.

‘Nowhere.’ Her voice has loads of air in it. 

‘What have you been doing?’ you say. ‘Everyone was worried.’ You don’t say that you were, but you have been lying awake, your leg killing you.

‘Nothing.’ It’s as if she’s not quite real, that her body’s here, but the rest of her is somewhere else, floating around in the corridors or something. She was never any good at lying.

‘Then why do you look like that?’ 

‘Like what?’ 

In the candlelight, you can see a rash of red on her cheek, but a paleness at the same time. Like a broad snow-covered valley, with bits of mashed roses everywhere. Her eyes are all wide.

And then you know. As if it has all been leading here. ‘Did you just – seven hells. Did you just fuck him?’

‘ _Arya_.’ The sound of a basket of snakes that have been trapped for a thousand years being let out. ‘ _No_.’

You turn properly, fold your arms about you. ‘I know something’s happened. I’m not an idiot.’

She turns too, though at the same time looks like she’s shrinking into herself. 

‘He touched you. He put his hand up your skirts.’ She just stares at you, but also right through you, like you’re not even there. ‘Kissing,’ you say. ‘There was kissing, then.’ 

She nods and grins, just a tiny bit. 

_Kissing_. ‘Seven bloody – ugh.’

‘He kissed me. I mean, I kissed him.’ Her voice feels like it’s burrowing away into some distant memory.

It’s a strange feeling, being jealous of her kissing someone you mostly can’t stand. ‘Why would you do that? Doesn’t his breath smell disgusting? And his beard? All that _hair_?’

She shakes her head, a stupid dreamy smile on her face. ‘Arya, I know it doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it doesn’t make much sense to me either, but – I can’t help it. It’s your fault for telling me in the first place. That he liked me.’

Brilliant. She’s found a way to blame it all on you. You want to hate her, to hate them both, but when she’s looking so stupidly pathetic, you can’t help it. You make a noise like you’re being strangled, turn onto your back, and try the hells to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two songs for the two parts of this GIGANTIC (hhmm, for me anyway) chapter:
> 
> [Simon and Garfunkel's 'Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fd-DvSTBq1o), which is the sort of '60s fey jingly-jangly Greenwich Village hipster shite that Sandor fucking hates, and is probably played by some minstrel hopping alongside him as he tries to outwalk Sansa after the mummer's play/flower DEBACLE.
> 
> [Gene Kelly 'Singing In The Rain'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1ZYhVpdXbQ>). After this chapter, Sandor goes out onto the streets of Braavos and performs this routine perfectly.


	11. Kiss The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and the slight-slightness of the chapter! Getting distracted by other writings, though this one has my heart.

**Sandor**

I wake up and Wolfgirl’s right there by the bed. Arms crossed, tapping her good foot, looking murderous. 

_What_? I say. It’s early. Light’s only just creeping in.

 _I told you what would happen_ , she says.

Well, that’s helpful. _I need more than that_ , I say. _Spit it out_.

 _I told you that I would kill you_ , she says.

 _You told me that for a year and my ears were ready to fall off with it_ , I say. _You’ve not managed it yet, have you_?

Her voice drops. _I told you that I’d kill you if you touched my sister_ , she says, and it sounds like a rhyme chirped by children in a yard.

A little spark of annoyance goes off in me. I think about denying it for about two eyeblinks. _Don’t go blaming me_ , I say. _She had a part in it as much as I_.

Her lip curls in disgust, as I imagined it would, as I imagine anyone’s doing if they ever hear about it. _I can’t believe you two_ , she says.

 _What_? I say. _Because she’s the beautiful fucking princess girl and I’m an ugly old dog_? 

She goes to retort but doesn’t, just stares, her eyes thinning. _No_ , she says. _I didn’t say that._ She turns on her heel, and I rub my hand over my face and try and remember everything that happened last night. The awning, and the rain, and Sansa's mouth.

She comes back round, her arms unfolding. _Do you really think she’s beautiful_? she says.

Gods damn them all. The pair of them. _Even a fool with half his brain dribbling out of his ears could see that she is_ , I say, trying to scrape back some of my reputation.

Her arms loosen, drop to her sides. _Don’t ever hurt her_ , she says, and I know she means it more than anything else she’s ever said to me. 

_I won’t_ , I say, and I mean it more than anything else too.

***

**Jaime**

Brienne come in looking rather flustered, Podrick in tow as usual.

I’m sitting down, a scrawled note in my hand. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m sure we were being watched.’

I stand. ‘You’ve been followed?’

She shakes her head irritably. ‘No. Further in the city. Once or twice I just – I felt sure there were eyes on me.’

‘Podrick?’ I say. ‘Do you agree?’

He folds his hands, looks as though he’s giving his brain a good pummel. ‘I’m not sure, ser. It was very busy.’ 

I look at Brienne again. A lock of her hair has come tumbling from the stern helm that she tends to make of it. I imagine curling it round my finger. I take a step closer, speak calmly. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘Not saw,’ she said. ‘Just -’ her voice drops and her eyes swing to the side, and I fancy there’s a little change in air at my being so close. A discomfort, but something else, too. ‘ _Sensed_. I can’t explain it. We kept to the shadows after that, close to walls, and I’m perfectly sure no one was behind us once we crossed the Long Canal.’

I take a deep breath in. Could be nothing. Though Brienne’s not one for imagining things. She wouldn’t see the point.

‘Really, Jaime, what did Varys want of us?’ she says. ‘Why did he put us here? I still can’t help feeling that it’s all a trap. That he’s working for -’ she frowns and sighs at the same time, and her eyes dart to mine. ‘Your sister.’

‘I can guarantee that he’s not,’ I say, sidestepping that tin of worms. The less we talk about her, the better. I hold my hand up.

She looks at the curling paper.

‘A note from him. Morro delivered it while you were out.’ 

She plucks it from my hand, and I watch her eyes trample back and forth over the words. 

It didn’t say much, in truth. At least not about our course of affairs. But it had made me feel rather better about one thing. Brienne looks up. ‘I’m glad that your brother is safe, Jaime.’

‘Saf _er_.’ Varys had written that Tyrion had been put on a ship bound for ‘elsewhere on Essos’ – perhaps he thought that two Lannister turncoats in one place was too dangerous – and to wait for further word. Something more cryptic about winged weapons and thrones. 

Gods, I’m fed up of thrones.

***

**Sandor**

I find Sansa sewing something to something else. She’s taken to making clothes for everyone, whether they want her to or not.

 _Well, that lasted long_ , I say to her, quietly. _Your vow of silence_.

The material drops to her lap and she looks at me guiltily. _I didn’t tell her_ , she says. _She just knew_.

 _How did she just know_? I say.

Her blushes spread to her neck, and her head comes down. _She just did_ , she says, and her eyes slide up to me. A tiny, shamed grin.

Gods damn it. I shake my head. _Never trusting you with any royal secrets_ , I say.

The grin gets wider by a hair’s breadth. _I’m sorry_ , she whispers. 

_If you think_ – I take a deep breath. _You think that I shouldn’t have – we shouldn’t have - done that. You’re to say_. It plagued me as soon as I’d left her. That she’d wish it back.

She stares at me for an age, and I swear I can see the thoughts fleeting through her like clouds in a high wind. ‘Course she thinks that. Sees the senselessness in it. She’s a bloody Stark and who the fuck am I?

I look at my boots, begin to speak again, to say I’ll go, leave this rain-pissing city, get far away from her, when she steps closer and I feel her fingers in mine, around mine. They’re cool as marble. And this time it’s her that stands and pulls me, outside to the stable where we’d been last night, her that tugs at my hand until I lean down to her. Except last night it was dark and she couldn’t see my face too much, and now the day’s blasting in and I can hardly bear the thought of these burns being so close to her. Of skin that looks like it’s been twisted by a fist and chucked back on, next to hers, which is like milk that’s been skimmed. Fuck.

But she’s there, and her mouth is there, and so is mine. Gods, the taste of her. And she pulls back, and blinks, slow and heavy, and I suppose that’s my answer, for now. Seven hells, I could just pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. Haul her away, to some distant land where no one’s ever heard of us, of Westeros –

***

**Arya**

You still can’t quite believe it. That it has actually happened. That Sansa would let him – _more_ than let him – touch her with that massive burnt face and those hands. You know what he’s done with those hands – picked apart still-alive pheasants, dug out meat from his gross teeth, probably wiped his own shit away when there wasn’t anything else.

You lunge at Podrick, who twists away just in time, Needle whistling past his ear. He’d still have you using a wooden sword if he had his way. 

Brienne is sitting on the wall, watching you both, pretending not to. ‘May I suggest something, my lady?’

You ignore her, try and think about water dancers, about light-footed cats, about anything but those two, but it’s impossible. You want to tell them. Podrick, and Brienne. Brienne would definitely not be happy about it. ‘What?’

‘I know you favour the water dancing style, but if you do want to fight that way, you need to make sure that you very directly target the weak spots. Be quicker when you go for a hit. Remember that you’ll never penetrate armour with a sword as slender as yours.’ You remember too well – slamming the point of Needle into the Hound’s chainmail at his belly. How your sword bent, just a little. The look on his face before you found yourself on the ground.

‘Where are the weak points?’ Brienne is saying, quite gently. Not the way that Syrio taught you, hitting your wrist with the wooden sword, or the Hound, cursing at you. ‘Podrick, stand for us.’

Podrick swallows and stands stiffly. 

‘Imagine he’s armoured,’ she says.

‘I’m not though, my lady,’ he says, almost under his breath, eyes to the heavens.

You walk round him, Needle pointing upwards. ‘The neck,’ you say. ‘Under the arm, the back of the knee, the inside of the thigh.’ Podrick swallows again. ‘Through a helm.’

‘A rather harder target.’ She’s polite enough to say that you’re too short to lever your sword through someone’s eye-slots and you feel stupid for saying it. ‘Well, it’s best to go for the inner thigh. A person can lose a lot of blood quite quickly. So the next thing to do is practise going for the same spot, rather a lot.’

You mime stabbing Podrick in the inner thigh and he puts his hands over his cock and looks pained. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me that?’ you say to him.

‘I didn’t know to, my lady.’ 

Brienne is smiling, but there’s no mockery in it. ‘You think it’s a stupid style,’ you say.

‘Not at all. Both approaches have their advantages.’ 

But Syrio was slain by men in plate armour and big fucking swords, you think. And that’s how she learnt, too. ‘When did you start learning to fight?’ you say.

She puts her big hands on her knees, looks happy enough to remember. ‘I was your age, or near enough. My father encouraged me to. He spotted rather quickly that my talents didn’t lie in –’ her eyes give the faintest roll, though she tries to conceal it. ‘Other things that a lady normally does.’

‘And what happens when – when your father dies?’

‘Then I inherit his titles and lands.’

You know that. ‘Won’t you – need a husband?’

She gazes up at the sky and back at you. ‘I was betrothed three times. None of those were quite the appropriate match.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, one died, though I wasn’t that distraught about it, being only seven. The next broke his betrothal vows, which I didn’t really mind either, and the third – well I broke that one.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘And some of his bones. I think I can manage without.’

‘Will you still fight?’

She smiles. ‘I’ll always fight. As you will, won’t you?’

You nod. 

‘Carry on then’, she says. ‘Show me a little more of your stance. I’d like to understand it.’

***

**Jaime**

Lying awake in this room, the draft making the window squeak like a damned mouse all the time. I can’t even be bothered to put my hand on my cock. 

My sword-hand. I had to re-learn that one, too. 

Cersei is more distant than ever. Not just that cool, far-off gaze she’d get if you said the slightest thing that might displease her, but a real distance. A Narrow Sea and a change of a season. I try and conjure her up, the times when she looked softer, or when she looked ferocious, capacious, when we were truly twinned, but now - 

It’s easier to imagine Brienne when she’s right here. No, that’s not fair – I’m happy to. More than happy to. She’s so – different, not just from Cersei but from everyone. I swear that more than once, I’ve caught her looking at me, too. There’s still an awful lot of mistrust, but – gods, is it wishful thinking to say that there is something else too? She’s like a bloody big wet log placed on a fire – she just needs rather a lot of drying out, letting the fires stoke beneath her, before she’ll –

I feel my hand itch, the one that’s not there. Fine. I’ll use the other. 

***

**Arya**

You are sitting outside on the step, your chin tipped up, your tongue sticking out.

‘I can get you some water, my lady.’

‘If I was thirsty, I’d get it myself,’ you say, except you haven’t moved your head or your tongue so the words come out all warped and you sound like a village idiot.

Podrick sits down next to you and you finally stop letting the contents of Braavos’ sky hit your tongue. ‘I’m so bored,’ you say.

‘At least that means you’re safe, my lady.’

You know he’s right. In truth you don’t really want two hundred Lannister soldiers beating down your door and disembowelling some of you and kidnapping the others and holding you for ransom or torturing you or feeding you to Braavosi crocodiles or something, but – you swing your sword arm, even though Needle is propped up in the corner of your room. 

‘I’ll teach you a game if you like, my lady. Though it doesn’t have any curses in it.’

‘Can’t be any good, then.’ You slide your eyes up to him and you both grin. ‘Go on, then. Teach me your game.’

He brings some small whittled sticks from a pocket and looks around for stones, and teaches you a game that involves pretending that they’re knights and horses and something to do with rivers and deaths and numbers. 

You look across at him as he moves a stick across. ‘How old are you?’ 

‘Ten and nine, my lady.’

The Hound is two and fifty or something. All right, not that old. Nothing like that old. Not as old as your father was. But older than Robb, or Jon. Way older. And now Sansa is kissing him. You’re sure they’ve done it again.

Ten and nine is still quite old, though. ‘Have you –’ you look over at him. ‘Kissed a girl? Or, you know, fucked one?’

Podrick goes from his normal shade of sort of pale parchment to pickled turnip in an eyeblink. ‘I’m - um, I’m not sure I should be talking about such things, my lady.’

‘Podrick, I’ve told you before. I travelled with the Night’s Watch. And the Hound. I’ve heard more about tugging cocks and tits the size of pumpkins and fucking two women at once than _you_ have.’ 

Podrick is now the colour of red cabbage. ‘Right. My lady.’ He looks extremely hard at the formation of stones and sticks.

‘Fine. Don’t tell me, then.’

‘It’s just – why do you want to know?’ 

You didn’t really know. ‘Is it nice?’ 

‘I think it would depend on who you were – kissing, my lady.’

Would Sansa _fuck_ him, the Hound? She hadn’t yet, but – _he_ would. You know he would, if she so much as blinked her eyelashes at him in the right way, he would. Didn’t she care about being thought to be a whore, or that no one would want to marry her? She wasn’t like Brienne, or you, or – 

Podrick is watching you, and the redness has gone from his cheeks. 

‘What?’

He shakes his head, and he has a very simple, plain look on his face that you can’t work out. 

You scratch at the ground near his thigh. Quite near his thigh. ‘Did you really kill Ser Boros at the Battle of Blackwater?’

‘No. But I did kill Ser Mandon Moore.’ He says it in the same way that he would say _I have made a mutton stew_ , or _I have scrubbed down the horses_.

‘How?’

‘With an axe. In the back of his head.’

You smile at the ground. ‘Excellent.’

He hasn't moved his thigh.

***

**Jaime**

‘Do you know where Sansa is, Lady Arya?’ says Brienne. ‘I’d like to thank her for repairing my shirt.’

Arya takes an apple from a plate, screws her nose up at it, and turns on her heel. ‘No. Probably out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Nowhere.’ She turns round at the door and raises her eyebrows. ‘With no one.’ 

Brienne waits for her to leave before glaring at me.

I sigh. ‘What is it?’

She lets her forearm fall with a clunk onto the table. ‘You do realise what’s going on.’

‘What?’

‘With Lady Sansa. And – _him_. She keeps disappearing. As does he. Something is happening. I am sure of it.’

It’s true enough that they’re growing closer. ‘I think it’s rather sweet.’

‘You can’t be serious. _Jaime_ -’ she looks exasperated. Horrified. ‘He’s a monster.’

‘A rehabilitated monster.’ I shrug. ‘Rehabilitat _ing_ , anyway. A little. They keep having these clandestine heart to hearts outside in the rain. I don’t mean physically. They just talk. She’s got him talking about all sorts – better than a septa. It’s all terribly earnest.’

‘I don’t think earnest is what I would use to describe him.’ 

‘He looked after Arya. Kept her alive. Risked his wellbeing to come over here and add his sword to ours.’

‘If that’s still why you think he followed us, then you’ve been drinking in whorehouses again.’

I let that go. ‘It won’t come to anything. She’s a sensible girl.’ A little bit of arm-in-arm surely doesn’t mean much. Though it’s always been plain that Clegane thinks about her more than he thinks about wine, which is saying something. Come to think of it, he has hardly touched a drop since he’s been in Braavos.

‘What if she feels – pressured?’ There’s a lovely little patch of crimson on the highest point of Brienne’s cheek.

‘Into…?’ I shake my head, look uncurious.

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘You can’t even say it.’

The words come through gritted teeth, as if pushed through cloth. ‘Into lying with him. Or _anything_ with him.’

‘I’m sure she can resist.’ I pick up an apple myself, examine it closely. ‘The women of this household seem to have exceedingly strong powers of will.’

I bite into it at the same time as she scrapes her chair back and stalks past me.

***

**Sandor**

I walk down the stairs as Sansa's walking upstairs, and even the sight of her almost floors me. And she leans her back against the wall, her hands behind her, to let me pass. And I do, but before I do, I move her hair away from one side of her neck, and lean down even though it fucking hurts my side to do so and kiss her there, once. 

She gives me a look like she’ll faint, her mouth opening, like I’ve just shoved my hand up her skirts. There’s a sound below us, and I keep walking down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets be frank. I do not like [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq-r4ZUpels). No one likes this song. Except Sansa.


	12. You Are My Sunshine (Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall)

**Sandor**

Kissing, again. I’m like a green bloody boy, the way I’m feasting on her, my cheeks hot. But it’s new, this – _all_ of this. I’m sitting down and she’s standing between my legs, hands on my shoulders, and I’ve my hands around the damned tiny waist she has, and there’s no talking, just this. It’s like a new tongue we’re learning – ay, and there’s that too, and more of it, from both of us. She’s started slipping her tongue into my mouth before me, and each time I feel that little lick, the wetness of her coming at me, it’s enough to make me – 

I pull back.

Sansa looks at me. _Are you – alright_? she says.

 _Ay, I’m alright_ , I say, and do all I can not to pull her into me a bit more, get her to put her tongue on my ear, my neck, my cock. _Ay_. 

_Do you like it_? she all but whispers.

I let out a laugh that’s dark and quiet. _What do you think? Haven’t let go of you yet, have I_? How she doesn’t know that one taste of her means more to me than any fuck I’ve ever had. 

She blinks and on the other side of the blink is the smile of a child who’s been told how good it’s been, and yet it’s the smile of a woman who knows the power she has, too, or is just starting to understand it. It’ll the bloody death of me.

She lets out a sigh that’s all autumn wind and flaking leaves and sits down next to me, close. _You were horrible to me at King’s Landing_ , she says, her finger scratching my palm, nail along the fine-stitched lines. _I know why you were, but - I thought you hated me_.

Pains me to hear that. I should have taken her away from there. Before Blackwater. When they came for her father. But I didn’t know, then. Too used to following. Too rigid to do any different. _Hated myself_ , I say, which isn’t exactly an excuse.

 _Do you hate yourself now_? she says.

The question’s like a slow, deep wound with a spear, exploring, opening me up. _I don’t know_ , I say, quiet.

She sits up, places her hand flat on my cheek, gazes straight at me. Two spears, in the gut. _You’re becoming a good man_ , she says. _I know it_.

***

**Arya**

You find Podrick outside, holding one of the horse’s legs up as he inspects the hoof. He stands when he sees you and his face is all red from his work. ‘Hello, my lady.’

You wander round the little half-stable, running your hands along the flank of the smaller, browner horse – you don’t care about names. They’ll only get stabbed or get sold by Jaime or the Hound, except he’s far too busy sticking his tongue down Sansa’s throat these days to do anything else.

‘Can I do something for you, my lady?’

‘Yes.’ You turn.

He looks pleased and straightens again, dusting hay off his breeches.

‘Can you kiss me?’ you say.

Podrick’s mouth falls open. You could probably stick a whole loaf of bread in there. And then his mouth moves like one of those fish you’ve seen in the harbour, just after they’ve been pulled out of the water.

You lean on your crutch and look at the wall. ‘Well, can you or can’t you?’

He is looking past you, towards the house, as if Brienne is going to storm out and hit him at any moment. ‘I – I really don’t think I should. My lady.’

Your shoulders drop. Now you feel like a complete idiot. 

‘Do you want me to?’ He looks very plain, and very confused, and sort of hopeful.

You’d been thinking about it. How everyone did it. How it was the first thing that people did, to each other. They did it loads here in Braavos, way more than in Westeros – everyone greeting each other with kisses on each other’s cheeks three times, and boys with their faces all over girls in the harbour, or against walls, or at that mummer’s play. And Sansa had said that he liked you.

‘I just want to know what it’s like,’ you say. ‘I want to get it over with.’ You don’t want to be the babe-in-arms of this ridiculous family. You are an adult. Almost.

His face falls a bit. But he still looks past you to the house, as if to check. 

‘Go on, Podrick.’ You try and look commanding. ‘I’m telling you to.’

He swallows and steps closer to you, and you suddenly feel like your skin is coated in wheatpaste, and you eye the ground. You’re not sure what to do. He smells a bit of horse. Maybe this is a stupid idea.

Podrick takes two really small breaths as if he is going to say something, but he doesn’t. Suddenly he seems very tall. And he glances towards the house one more time, and then without touching you anywhere else, leans down and kisses you.

It’s very short, just one kiss, and totally strange. His face was _right there_. Actually, it is still there, as he hasn’t completely straightened, and you’re looking at his neck. And he kisses you again, and it makes a tiny sort of snapping sound, and it’s a bit slower. Then he stands up properly. 

His eyes are the same colour as the smaller horse. A drop of rain falls from his fringe onto your nose. You feel a bit hot. 

‘You can do that some more if you like,’ you say, screwing your face up at him.

He looks pained – _Payned_ , you think, and feel like laughing very loudly – but also sort of like a soft puddle of muddy water, and his eyebrows almost reach each other as he tries to say something again, and instead he leans down and this time he puts his hand on your cheek.

This kiss is even slower, and sort of becomes another one, and then another, all knitted together. But it’s gentle, not slobbery like you thought it would be. His hand is very warm, and it’s on your cheek and your neck at the same time. When he pulls back, you realise that you’ve got your eyes shut.

You blink and he’s looking at you, and looks way older and not like a servant, and you have no idea what to say. 

There’s a sound and you both jump and it’s Brienne, yelling for Podrick. His head moves, quickly. ‘I had better go,’ he says, and gives a sort of sheepish smile, and has his squire-face back on.

‘Alright,’ you say, and watch him leave, and look at the horses.

***

**Jaime**

I sit alone, looking at the coin on the bed. Knowing it’s the last pile. Knowing I have no more notes to write. I’m fairly positive that if I go to the Iron Bank, word will get to King’s Landing that we’re in Braavos quicker than ravens' wings. Even if that was not a danger, I always remember there being dark mutterings in the corners of the Red Keep about how much debt the throne owed anyway.

My whole life has been spent in service to the throne. And to my father. All I know is war, and standing outside a door listening to a king fuck his whores, pretending not to know about it. 

I don’t know a damned thing. I have no trade, nothing I know how to craft. I can swing a sword – and that considerably less now. Who in the hells would ever employ an ageing swordsman with one bloody hand, no matter what my reputation is? I think then of Joffrey, taunting me over the lack of words about my service in the Book of the Kingsguard. Dammit. I hardly have any reputation at all.

The others haven’t asked, just always assumed that I could provide. The Lannisters, birthed in bloody gold, rolling around in it. At some point I’ll have to tell them, I suppose.

The coin glints as a slash of sunlight crosses the room before the clouds cover it again. Maybe not just yet.

***

**Arya**

‘You’re quiet,’ says the Hound.

You’ve gone to the markets with him to get food for the house, and though he’s been muttering about not being a bloody kitchenmaid, he seems happy enough to be out. The rain’s sort of like itchy wool. Jaime and Brienne have warned you both to be on the lookout, to make sure no one is watching you. Jaime also seemed a bit odd about giving you money, but you got it out of him in the end.

‘No, I’m not,’ you say.

‘Ay, you are. Have you forgotten I’ve had you ranting on in my ear for half my bloody life?’

‘Half your life,’ you say, scoffing. ‘I haven’t been alive for half your life. _Sansa_ hasn’t.’ That shuts him up. For about three steps.

‘Thinking about someone?’ he says.

‘No.’

‘Not the little blushing squire?’

You feel three thousand fires light up in your belly. ‘Fuck off.’ Shit. Did he see something? ‘Why the hells do you say that?’

‘No reason. Just heard it on the sweetwater.’ 

He didn’t know, then. But Sansa must have said something to him. You will have to kill her later. It had been quite nice, Podrick kissing you. Nicer than you had thought it would be. His breath didn’t really smell too bad or anything. You felt a bit more grown-up now.

The Hound is sniggering. ‘Who’d have thought it. A little boy fluttering his eyelashes at another little boy.’

‘Fuck _off_.’ You shove him, as hard as you can when you’re balancing on your crutch. You’re half-mad that he’s being so mean about Podrick, as well as about you. ‘He killed Ser Mandon Moore. You stood alongside him, worked with him without lifting a finger, and Podrick killed him, easy as that.’

‘Ay, killed him for the Imp. Some fucking thanks I owe him for that.’

You are walking past a bread stall, and there is a pile of steaming manure next to it, and you think about pushing him into it, even if you end up breaking most of your bones to do so. ‘Anyway, you can’t fucking talk,’ you say. ‘ _You’re_ the one fluttering your eyelashes. It’s pathetic.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice is all scorn, no shame.

‘I do. She’s my sister. Don’t you know what sisters do?’ He looks puzzled. ‘She tells me everything.’ You narrow your eyes at him as you lie. ‘ _Everything_.’

He doesn’t look flustered. Maybe it’s not as bad as you thought. Yet. 

You have reached the Moon Pool, a huge stone pool and fountain, though the water smells pretty horrible. Maybe that’s what it smells like on the moon. ‘That’s where water-dancers come to fight,’ you say, imagining Syrio there, lacing the air with his blade. 

The Hound snorts. ‘ _Fighting_. It’s where they come to wash their hair and prance around like ladies who are in their cups.’ 

You whack his ankle with your crutch. ‘I _hate_ you.’

He just laughs, and you see that his strength is back, enough to insult the hells out of you. But before he can begin another one, there is a voice behind him.

‘Hello, lovely girl.’ 

***

**Sandor**

My sword’s out. Maybe these are the eyes Tarth’s been flapping about, the ones following her through the city. _Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to_? I say. 

Black-skinned man, my age, dressed in dark red and orange. Sitting up on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out. Like he’s just dropped there.

Wolfgirl’s looking cheerful. _Hello, Jaqen_ , she says.

H’gar. The Faceless One. _Another friend of yours_ , he says to her, hardly looking at me, not a question. His voice has a poncy bloody frill to it.

She crosses her arms, doesn’t look at me. _Sort of_ , she says, and shifts her weight. _Have you been watching Brienne, Jaqen? Following her around_?

He looks into the distance, like she’s talking about a vast sum of money, or a steam bath with him and twenty whores. _Ah_ , he says. _Your lovely warrior friend_.

 _Answer the question_ , I say.

He fixes his black-grey eyes on us again. _I am sorry to say that a man has not_ , he says, _although a man would very much like to cast his eye upon such a fighter again_ , and I wonder what bloody man he is talking about. 

_I’ve been thinking more about what you said_ , says Arya. _About the training_.

 _Like fuck you have_ , I say, turning to her. 

She glares at me. _I have_ , she says. _There’s nothing to do. You’re all_ – her glare grows thorns. _Busy_. She turns to this bastard whose smile is a white gleam. Ankles crossed, casual. _Would you still take me, if I wanted_?

It hurts a bit, to hear her say that.

He looks at her. _A girl wants a vocation_ , he says. _A man is not one to deny a girl that right_.

 _What the fuck you speaking like that for_? I say.

 _It’s just the way he speaks_ , says Arya.

 _A girl wants to be called by her proper fucking name_ , I say. _A girl, a man, what is this fucking shite_? 

_Don’t be rude_ , she says. _He could kill you just like that_.

The man’s built like a maypole. _Like to see him fucking try_ , I say.

He stares at me, eyes the colour of storm-clouds. _I would only kill a man if a girl desires it_ , he says. _But it is as a girl says. It would take less than the time it took a man to blink his eye twice_.

Insolent fucker. I cross my arms, turn to her with my eyebrow up. _Well, here’s your perfect fucking chance_.

She scowls, kicks at the damp dirt. Mumbles something.

 _What’s that_? I say, leaning down.

 _Not for now_ , she says to the Faceless Twat, who gives a bloody slow bow like he’s a puppet being lowered after a mummer’s show.

***

**Jaime**

‘If there’s anyone not to be trusted, it’s him,’ Clegane says.

He’s back with Arya, the pair of them scowling as usual, though somehow they don’t quite get tired of each other. Now Podrick’s pouring us a little ale each as we discuss the streets and who might be watching us. 

‘I’m sure it wasn’t Jaqen,’ says Brienne. ‘I would have known.’ I try not to get distracted thinking about punching H’gar in the face with the one fist I still possess.

Arya is trying to get Podrick to pour her some ale, and he is doing a very bad job of ignoring her.

‘How would you fucking _know_?’ says Clegane to Brienne. ‘He can change his arseing face. That’s the whole point. Every time you turn round he could have a new one. You trust too easily.’

‘Do I?’ she says, rather coolly.

‘Clegane’s got a point, Brienne,’ I say. ‘If not him, then it’s worth remembering that he’s not the only Faceless Man in this city. If they were working together -’

‘Woman,’ says Arya.

‘My lady?’ I say.

‘If you can train to be a Faceless Man,’ she says. ‘Then a woman can do it too.’

‘Or a Faceless Man like Jaqen could change his face into a woman’s,’ says Sansa.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Arya says. ‘So I could change into a man?’ 

‘You’re not changing into anyfuckingthing,’ says Clegane, before he looks down with distaste at his cup. ‘This ale’s like piss.’

‘Tastes fine to me,’ I say, pretending that I haven’t secretly watered it down, just to keep it lasting a little longer.

***

**Arya**

The boot touches your shin again. ‘That’s _my_ leg, you know.’

You are all sitting round the table, eating another one of Podrick’s pig and apple stews. No one tends to say much, as everyone is stuffing their faces while Podrick looks at you all anxiously. You grin at him to tell him that it’s nice and he gives you a quite slow smile back and you look very hard at the stew. And your leg gets nudged again. 

The Hound’s face changes and he sits up straighter. ‘What?’ he says, as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

‘My leg. That you keep touching. The wounded one.’ You’d partly asked Jaqen about training again to spite the Hound, but only partly. Maybe that was you should be doing, if you were a grown-up. Not kiss a boy that you weren’t sure whether you liked or not. _Fight_. Kill.

Sansa’s cheeks have gone red. Brienne is looking blankly between you both. Jaime has a smug little smile on his face. Podrick carries on chewing, staring with concentration at the wall as if he hasn’t heard, though you know perfectly well that he knows exactly what you mean more than anyone.

The Hound gives you a dull look that you know actually means _shut up you little cuntbitch or I’ll pluck out both your eyes and cook them like eggs_. ‘Thought it was the table.’

You snort and a bit of food comes out. 

***

**Jaime**

We’re all out. The rain’s stopped and we’re delirious for dry air. But we’re keeping our senses sharp, just in case. 

Sansa has her arm in Clegane’s again and their bodies are rather close. Perhaps there is something going on between those two, as Brienne suspects - I’m rather easy to dismiss her form of gloomy pessimism. I keep hearing furtive whispering round corners, and then find the pair of them sitting apart, talking in a slightly stilted fashion about horses or the weather, which, as it’s always rain, is especially unconvincing.

I suppose Brienne would never do that with me, walk arm in arm. Anyway, all our armour would just get hooked together. Not very intimate.

A hooded man brushes past my elbow and his eyes slide to me as he walks past. Dark and alive. My skin prickles a little. 

‘Jaime?’ says Brienne.

I watch him disappear into the crowds. It’s certainly very easy to imagine everyone is watching you. Casting my eyes over the higher walls towards the Red Temple, there are silhouettes, two or three. They might be facing us.

Brienne has followed my gaze. ‘Maybe that blacksmith boy knew more than he was letting on,’ she says.

‘What blacksmith boy?’ says Arya, next to her.

I glance over. ‘Oh, someone Morro found. Westerosi.’

‘Where did you speak to him?’

‘It wasn’t Jaqen, Lady Arya,’ says Brienne. ‘If that’s what you were thinking.’

‘Yes, he didn’t undress her with his eyes,’ I say and Brienne glares at me.

‘But where?’ Arya says. ‘Where was he working?’

‘By the foreigner’s harbour,’ I say. 

Arya looks rather strange. Alert as a rabbit suddenly. ‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Not for long. He wasn’t exactly a fount of information.’

‘Or that’s the impression that he was trying to give,’ Brienne said.

‘What did he look like?’

Sansa is looking over, her head cocked as a bird on a branch might, watching her sister. 

‘Oh, I don’t know, a little older than Lady Sansa perhaps,’ I say. ‘About as tall. You couldn’t really see him what with all the grime covering him from head to toe.’

‘What colour hair did he have?’ she says.

‘Black, like all the rest of him.’

‘Apart from his eyes,’ Brienne says. ‘His eyes were very blue.’

Arya stares at everyone for a moment, and suddenly darts away through the crowd.

Sansa calls after her. ‘ _Arya_!’

Brienne looks round. ‘Good gods, where has she gone?’

Podrick was already moving. ‘I’ll go, my lady, I can see her.’

***

**Arya**

It could be him.

You run-hop so much that your leg hurts. A man on a horse seems to ask if he can be of assistance and you nod and let him help you up in front of him, with your crutch in your lap.

It might not be him.

You don’t know the words for _foreigner_ and _harbour_ or _smithy_ so you just point and nod, loads, and amazingly, the man clicks his tongue and follows your jabbing finger, talking to you in a strange, rolling tongue. The rain has started again, heavy drops of it.

‘I haven’t got anything to give you,’ you say to the man, who has fat arms like hams and is holding you round the waist, as you get towards the harbour. He tightens his grip and says some more words quite close to your ear and you begin to feel a bit sick.

As the ships come into view, you feel his tongue flick at your neck and immediately start elbowing him and wriggling off. ‘Get the fuck off me.’ You half-slide, half-fall off, hard, onto your hip on the cobbles, and it hurts loads, but you’ve pulled your crutch with you and you jab it up at him and sort of into his crotch, twice, and he howls and curses at you and you swear at him some more as you back away. 

Now your hip is killing you. You limp even more than normal towards the little harbour market, looking for smoke in the air, listening for the sound of metal on metal. It could be him. It might not be him. But it could be. 

You can’t see anything for ages, only idiots speaking in every language but yours, shoving things in your face, the smells of smoked fish and rotting fish and ale and wine. And then there, past a group of women in brightly-coloured silks, past a man holding the leashes of five goats in one hand, you see it. A small, angled roof, and a little smoke, and that familiar sound.

You daren’t think his name. Not yet.

You walk more slowly now, because it probably isn’t him, and you’ll only be disappointed, like you were when you thought you saw Syrio.

You turn another corner, and keep your eyes on the street and the way the rain runs down the middle of it, down into a little drain in front of the smithy, and you make yourself look up.

There’s a middle-aged man with a stooped back and massive arm muscles, bashing all the seven hells out of some metal, making sparks fly in all directions. He glances up and stares at you, his eyes narrowing. Says something too fast in Braavosi. There’s no one else there. You feel a dull pain in your stomach. Of course he’s not here. Idiot. You turn around and – 

He is walking towards you, with two waterskins dangling from his hand, and swipes of grime all over his arms. He doesn’t look any different at all.

And his eyes flick up, tired and casual, and they change completely when he sees you. He stops dead.

‘Gendry?’ you say, and your voice sounds tiny.

‘Arya,’ he says, and the way he says your name is both a question and its answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a dear soft spot for this song, as my grandad, not one for grand demonstrations, used to sing it to my nan. Podrick quite likes it too, especially in his current state. Here's a smashing version by Aretha Franklin which brings a bit of appropriate melancholy into proceedings with its prelude. [You Are My Sunshine (Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-x5wxciBTc4)


	13. Raindrops and Sunshowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting slightly behind with this, but only because I got completely waylaid by my first Modern AU, which takes the Arya/Podrick dynamic and rolls a little further with it. Read [Potential here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5847346/chapters/13477564) if you fancy!
> 
> Meanwhile, we pick up just where we left off; Arya has just found Gendry.
> 
>  **A Wolfgirl in Braavos Chapter 13 cast PICSET!!** Linkable [here](http://i.imgur.com/B1lszzo.jpg).
> 
>  

**Arya**

You’re still standing there in the rain, staring at Gendry, wondering what feeling you have the most. There are so many all crushed together that they have flattened each other.

And he is staring at you, too, and you have no idea what he is thinking either. His mouth seems to try and make a few shapes, but no words come out.

‘You’re – you’re here,’ you say, finally. It is the most stupid thing to say ever.

He nods, looks sort of sheepish and not-sheepish at the same time. ‘I am.’ Watchful.

‘But – how -’ you think again of the last time you saw him, being carted off by that woman with the blood-red hair, the woman who said there was darkness in you. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Keeping my head down,’ he says. ‘You?’

‘The - yes. The same.’ You have forgotten how to put words together properly.

There’s a sharp call behind you. Gendry looks past you and says some words in Braavosi to the man who is maybe his master, or you think it’s Braavosi, and it’s so strange to hear him speaking them that you almost laugh.

‘What happened to your leg?’ he says, and you look down at your crutch, and remember the throbbing pain you’ve now got in your hip as well from falling off the horse owned by that disgusting bastard.

‘Oh. A man from the Mountain Clans threw an axe at it.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Been keeping well out of trouble, then.’

‘Not exactly.’ You manage to almost grin at him. He has a long streak of black across his forehead.

The sounds of the market are seeping back in, slowly. The bright, high smash of hammer on steel, and the man using it muttering to himself. People calling, and gulls. 

‘Friend of yours?’ he says.

You look round, and Podrick is standing there with his hands folded, just far enough back to be respectable, looking out of breath. ‘Oh. Yes. That’s Podrick. He’s our squire. Sort of.’

‘You’ve got a squire now, have you?’

‘Sort of. Not really.’ You look round again. 

‘Hello,’ says Gendry to him over your head, in the sort of voice he always had, where you could never really tell what he meant. Really carefully-shaped, like the end of a sword.

‘Hello,’ you hear Podrick say back, just as carefully.

You both look at each other again.

‘I thought -’

‘I thought -’

Gendry lowers his waterskins to the ground. ‘You first,’ he says.

‘I thought you might be dead,’ you say.

‘Me too,’ he says. ‘I thought the Brotherhood had taken you back to your family, and that -’

‘They didn’t,’ you say, quickly, because you do not want him to finish that sentence. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Which involves Mountain Clan men attacking you with axes.’

You nod.

‘More friends of yours?’ He is looking past you again, to where Jaime and Brienne have appeared next to Podrick, Jaime looking like he’s about to collapse down dead. Now the three of them are standing there like they are trying not to listen, like they just all happen to be hanging around on this exact corner.

‘They’re protecting me, sort of.’

‘Obviously.’ There’s a tiny bit of light in his eyes. The blacksmith is yelling at him. ‘I have to go.’

‘Oh. Ok.’ You feel desperately sad, and turn towards the others, who suddenly seem to be examining the sky.

‘Arya. I’m always here.’ He gestures up the small roof behind you, which is dripping, slow and steady, with the rain. His eyes are ridiculously blue in all the greyness. ‘If you want to find me again.’ 

You look at him. Nod. Grin.

***

**Sandor**

It’s late, and I’m with the Tarth woman in the kitchen, because Wolfgirl was found talking to some Westerosi boy before they all came home, and Sansa has pulled her away to talk about it. I can still taste her on me. My lips sting.

I catch Tarth glaring at me.

 _What_ , I say. _Out with it_.

She pushes herself off the wall by her shoulder. _If you dare do anything_ , she says.

 _What the fuck are you talking about, woman_? I say, folding my arms.

 _Don’t pretend you don’t know_ , she says. _We all know. What you’re doing. With her_.

For fuck’s sake. Arya, running her mouth off. How else would she know? I don’t change my face one bit. _It’s none of your fucking business_ , I say, trying to look like I don’t care.

 _She’s a highborn lady_ , she says. _She’s ten and seven. A girl_.

Ten and eight, I think, soon enough, as if that makes it any better. _She’s more of a woman than you are_ , I say. _Ay, and maybe that’s it. Don’t want something happening under your nose that you haven’t had yourself_?

 _Don’t be preposterous_ , she says. _They are in my care, and if you do anything that she_ – 

_You think I would_? I say, standing, so that I’m that finger taller than her. _That I’d have her against her wishes_? I put my hand on my sword hilt. 

_I don’t trust you_ , she says.

 _Think I trust you_? I say. _Fucking Rainbow guard, Stark oaths, Lannister steel. We’ve all ended up being something we weren’t. Maybe not you. Maybe you came out kicking and screaming from your mummy’s cunt, ready to kill every last fucker who ever screamed Renly Baratheon’s name in anger. Oh no, wait – it’s not Baratheon’s name you’re interested in any more – it’s someone a little closer to home_. I wave one hand in the air, and hold my other one up, with my hand flopping down at the wrist as if not there.

 _You’re reprehensible_ , she says.

 _I just say what I see_ , I say. _You think I’d do anything to her that_ – Wolfgirl would have me hung, drawn and quartered before you laid a hand on me, I think. Hells, I’d do it myself. I lean close to her, smell that milk-smell of her breath. _Fuck you_ , I say, and turn heel.

***

**Arya**

‘The one who travelled with you on the Night’s Watch? And with Hot Cake?’

‘Hot _Pie_.’ You hadn’t ever told Sansa much about Gendry, as much as she’d tried to Bolton-leech it out of you, just mentioned him a few times in passing. But even that had been enough for her and now she is beaming at you, wide-eyed, as if you have just told her you’ve found a dragon’s egg.

‘But that’s amazing, Arya.’ She sits down on the bed and hugs her arms.

You shrug.

‘Where does he live?’

‘I don’t know. But he works at the blacksmith’s near the foreigner’s harbour.’

‘So you’ll visit him again?’

‘I suppose so,’ you say, shrugging, wondering how soon is too soon to turn up there for the second time.

It had been strange, seeing Gendry again. You had done so much since you had last seen him. Felt older. And had all these people around you, looking out for you now. Once it had just been the two of you, or three of you, trying to keep each other alive, sleeping side by side, getting caught and hoping you weren’t going to die the death of the burrowing, hungry rat. You never told him much, but even so, you found a way of being around each other which both of you had understood, for a while. A bit like you and the Hound had done, after that. How could it be like that again?

Sansa is looking all dreamy again. She had dragged you straight up to your room when you had all returned, had obviously heard from Jaime where you had been, but now you look at her properly. ‘You’ve been kissing him again,’ you say.

Sansa looks at you. Her cheeks are pink and there are strands of hair flying about. ‘I’m not supposed to say.’

‘That means you have.’

She sits back against the wall with a pathetic sigh.

You just don’t get it. Just because he likes her doesn’t mean she has to like _him_. ‘Do you really like him?’

‘Yes. Don’t you?’

You shrug. ‘Not like _that_.’ You sit down next to her and pick your fingernail. ‘Do you _love_ him?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head. ‘How do you know?’ 

You remember how she had said that she loved Joffrey once, but don’t bring it up. ‘Don’t ask me.’

She gives you a grin and puts her arms around you. ‘I love _you_ , Arya.’

‘That’s different.’ You let her rest your head against yours. 

‘You’re the only family I’ve got,’ she says in a murmur.

‘Don’t forget Jon,’ you say, and push her away slightly. ‘Why do you never talk about him?’

She looks guilty. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s – I wasn’t close to him like you were.’

He made your bow. Had Needle forged. He would carry you around on his back through the woods when you were smaller, and showed you spiders as big as your hands. Let you put a mouse in his hair. ‘Mother hated him, didn’t she?’ you say.

‘No. Not – hated. She – it was hard for her, Jon not being – hers. I’m sure you understand that.’

You don’t say anything. He was still Father’s. Still your brother. ‘I miss him.’

‘Do you think he’s alive?’

‘I know he is.’ You were sure of it. ‘Maybe we could send him a message, at Castle Black. To tell him we’re alive.’

‘I don’t know, Arya. There’s no telling that a raven would get there, or into his hands. We don’t know who to trust.’

‘Do you trust Jaime? And Brienne?’

‘Of course. Don’t you?’

You let out a big sigh, remembering how they’d all chased after you earlier. The relief on their faces. ‘I suppose so.’

***

**Sandor**

Truth is, of course I’ve thought about it. About whatever Tarth is daring me not to do. Sansa, and doing every fucking thing to her every which way. But – I don’t know, I want to and I don’t, because it’ll fucking ruin her and that will make me the least noble bastard alive. It has to come from her. 

I’m thinking all this as I slide my hand around her waist, in our spot outside in the stables, just away from the rain. She makes these little falling sighs and her hands do find their way into new places, it’s true. Fingers at my collar, gentle on my waist, pulling me into her a little more. Gods and the Stranger and the Smith and –

How can I know? Shove my hand up her skirts? It’s not like I can have her in my room. We’re all living in each other’s fucking pockets. And not her room. The idea of asking makes me want to put my fist through a pane.

I lean down, kiss the skin where her collarbone meets her dress. She tastes of salt, and some leaf or other. I slide my hand down her back, keep going down, feel her stiffen as I touch her arse, keep going down to her thigh, pull it up so that her leg’s around me. Push against her.

Sansa hops a bit on her other leg, grabs me. Looks bloody startled. 

The rain’s feeling its way down my shirt collar. _Sansa_ , I say.

 _Yes_? she says, the word as light and spinning as dust in the air. Still standing there on one leg, with me holding her.

I want you. I fucking want you. Then I see Tarth’s face, blunt as a fucking rock. I shake my head.

Sansa swallows. I see the two sides of her throat rise. She slides her leg down. _Um_ , she says, and leans and kisses me lightly on the cheek. _Goodnight_. 

I stare up at the moon, which is like a hollow mouth, the sort of mouth that will never take my cock in it. Ay, goodfuckingnight.

***

**Jaime**

I’ve slept late. Podrick snores to all the seven heavens and once he’s up it’s a blessing to try and get a bit more. Yawning as much as a green boy I go to step into the kitchen and hear Brienne’s voice, hover outside the door instead.

‘Lady Sansa, I feel that I must say something to you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Please know that I only say it because I am charged with keeping you safe, in – in all respects.’

‘And you do. You have done. Very well. Arya and I are very grateful to you. To everyone.’

‘Well, there is no need to be grateful. It is my duty. Our duty.’ There she goes, ranting on about it again. She’ll be back on her knees renewing her oaths for the fifth time at this rate. Ah no, she is managing to press on. ‘My lady, it has come to my attention that the – companionship between you and Clegane -’

‘Sandor.’

‘Yes. Of course. Between you and Sandor has - deepened somewhat.’

I remain very still. Sansa does not answer.

‘I am concerned, only with your utmost care in mind, that the two of you might not be appropriately -’

‘I care about him.’

‘Of course. Yes. Of course you do. He’s been very kind to your sister.’

‘And to me.’

‘Yes -’

‘Lady Brienne. I am grateful for your concern. Really I am. But I care about him very much and I am glad that he is here and I know you don’t think so, but he is a good person. I know he can be. And if you’re worried about us lying together, well, we haven’t, but it’s really none of your business.’

I lean back against the wall, and can’t help a smile.

***

**Arya**

‘So, you’ve got a new friend.’

You are out with the Hound, heading down to the Long Canal. Podrick is also there and you wish he wasn’t because you feel a bit terrible. Because you asked to kiss him, and now you wished you hadn’t. Mostly.

‘Not a new friend,’ you say. ‘An old one. You met him.’

‘When?’ He sounds uninterested.

‘At the Brotherhood’s cave. He was there with me then.’

The Hound does one of his twisted-up frowns. ‘Don’t remember. Was too busy getting my fucking arm burned.’

You roll your eyes. ‘Well, he was.’ Gendry had grabbed you when you tried to stab the Hound yourself, but you don’t bring that up now.

‘Who the fuck is he, then?’

Podrick is walking next to you, but sort of looking around, as if he is not listening. You know he is listening. ‘Gendry Waters. He is from King’s Landing.’ You don’t say Fleabottom. ‘We were being taken north to the Night’s Watch.’

The Hound makes a scowling noise, like an angry but sleepy dog. ‘Bunch of thieves and rapists, you mean?’

‘ _He_ wasn’t. He’s a blacksmith. His master didn’t want him any longer.’ 

The Hound doesn’t seem very convinced. ‘He going to rat on us?’ 

‘ _No_ ,’ you say, and think about kicking him. ‘He’s -’ you glance at Podrick. ‘I know him. He can be trusted. More than _you_.’

‘Ay, that’s rich. Calling me untrustworthy, are you?’ 

‘My lady.’ Podrick is at your shoulder and you turn to him and try not to look guilty. ‘I’m just going to get some goat’s milk. And a horseshoe fixed.’

You nod. ‘Meet you by the canal?’ 

He does a little sort of nod-bow and doesn’t quite smile, and walks over to some stalls.

You are by the coppery green domes of the Palace of Truth. Maybe people cannot lie in there, you think, and wonder what everyone you know now would be forced to say if they set foot in there. Brienne would have to say that she wanted to kiss Jaime and be the best fighter in the Known World, and Jaime would have to say that he wanted to fuck Brienne and that he was sad that his father was dead really, and Sansa would have to say whether she loved the Hound and how many times she had thought about his cock, and the Hound would have to say how many times in the day he thought of fucking Sansa although everyone knew the answer to that, and Jaqen would have to say which face he liked wearing the best and whether he truly thought that you could be a Faceless Assassin, and Gendry would have to tell you whether he thought of you as my lady still, and Podrick – you weren’t sure what Podrick would say.

The Hound looks over. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

You lean against the wall. ‘Nothing,’ you say, and you are about to say something about Jaqen or maybe Sansa just to annoy him, when there’s a movement behind him.

It’s subtle, barely there, a shifting in the crowd, but you know straightaway that something is wrong. And the Hound sees your eyes, and he knows too, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, and you see him go from big stupid fuck to alert warrior in an eyeblink.

‘Two,’ you say, so quietly that no one else will hear. 

His jaw goes tight, and he watches you. You wait until the two men who have bled out from the crowd, men with cloaks and weapons definitely hidden under there, are as near as they can be without getting him. 

And you blink at him, once.

The Hound turns. His sword is out, and Needle is in your hand, your crutch dropping to the ground. There’s a grunt as his blade meets another, and at the same time he is shouldering the other attacker. You run round and go for that one’s inner thigh, as Brienne taught you. Miss it. Shit.

People around you are gasping and making room as the fight becomes visible, the high clashing of swords as the Hound meets the taller man again. This attacker has thrown his cloak off and is dressed in black. He spins and brings his sword down but the Hound ducks just in time and the other one is at his back, and you try and get him again and hit his leg. The point of Needle sticks firm for a moment. A small tear in his breeches.

The smaller attacker turns, a dark, angry cry as he lunges at you. You lean back and his sword whistles past your nose but you stumble and he reaches for you, too quick. Grabs you around the waist with one arm and you wish you weren’t so fucking small. The way he’s holding you means you can’t get at him with Needle and you kick your legs and thrash in his grasp.

The Hound has the other attacker. He is advancing as the man staggers back, and in one heavy move, the Hound brings his sword down with both hands and chops the man’s arm clean off. It rolls on the ground and the man shouts as he sees it, looks back at his arm stump, which is mangled mud and maggots, with shock slapped onto his face, falls to his knees. The Hound kicks his shoulder and stabs him in the chest, stands and looks at you.

Your attacker doesn’t seem quite sure what to do. You are wriggling like fuck in his arms and he is breathing in your ear, loud and smelling of sweated vegetables. 

The Hound has gone very still, his chest heaving, and there’s a glint in his eye. ‘Going to finish her off, then?’ he says, and he has the same voice he had when he was talking to Polliver about chicken at that inn.

The man takes a step backwards with you, forward again. Everything seems to have gone quiet, apart from his breaths and you wriggling. The Hound is looking at you, and you read him, and go very still. Hang like a dead thing. This is what he wants. 

He waits, watches, and it feels like forever but can’t be more than two eyeblinks. And then the Hound lunges forward, sword out to the side and coming inwards, and you twist away as much as you can as he jams it into the man’s ribs.

You fall with the man, knees crashing into the cobbles, tumble away. Listen to the sound of the man sputtering as the Hound stabs him three more times. Garbled death-coughs. The slick swipe of the sword.

The Hound’s hand is above you. You lie on your back and look at him. ‘You might have got me,’ you say.

‘No chance,’ he says, and helps you up. Your stomach is dully throbbing from where the man’s arm has been. The Hound has been cut on the arm and blood slides off in long drips. He holds it up and looks at it, and his other wrist goes quickly against his side. He is still wounded, after all. ‘Those were our watchers, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s get back to the house. Find the squire.’

But as he turns, someone steps up to him. A slim man, with long green and white robes flowing from his shoulders, and his hand on the hilt of a long, thin sword. He looks like he might be able to move in the water-dancer style. ‘Come with me,’ he says, in a harsh version of the Common Tongue.

The Hound laughs. ‘I don’t fucking think so.’ He lifts his sword, which has blood on it and a little knot of sinew spiralling off. ‘You lot not had enough?’ 

‘Sandor,’ you say, and it is the first time you have said his proper name. He looks at you and is as startled as you are about that, before he looks around him to see what you have already noticed. 

Behind the slender man, ten more men with the same shoulder-robes and thin swords step forward until they circle you both. The Hound’s face goes from black amusement to grim defeat. 

He looks over at you again. You know his eyes well enough to know what he is saying to you, and your heart thumps as it sinks.

No chance.

***

**Jaime**

Though Brienne has been about as effective at womanly advice-giving to Sansa as a bull out to pasture, it plays on my mind. We’re responsible for her safety, as she said. And with Sansa admitting their closeness, I feel that I must say something to her.

‘Lady Sansa.’ I find her alone, washing plates. She has insisted that Podrick not be the only kitchenmaid under this roof. ‘I know that Brienne sometimes forgets that you are a grown woman and that you know your own mind, but – are you sure that you want to be –’ I try to think of the most delicate way of putting it. ‘Your intimacy with Clegane. It’s perhaps wise to think what your father would have thought. Your mother.’

Her gaze becomes rather stony. She dries her hands, turns to me properly and folds her arms. ‘My mother is dead. My father is dead. Your family killed them.’

I take a deep breath. ‘My apologies. That was distasteful. I just mean that perhaps you need to think about your family name. Your inheritance.’

‘What inheritance? Roose Bolton has the North. Winterfell is a ruin. Arya is all I have.’

‘You never know what might change. Fortunes do tend to be fickle.’

‘And that’s what you’ve done, is it? Thought about your family name?’ There’s a little childish petulance there.

‘Actually, yes. It’s not had much of a reputation so far.’

‘I just mean – you said you wouldn’t do anything your father wanted you to do. You wouldn’t marry. Why shouldn’t I do what I want to do too?’

‘Very well, my lady. Just know that I am – both Brienne and I are always here to protect you, or to give advice, of any sort, should you wish it.’

‘As I am for you, Ser Jaime,’ she says, and her eyes change very quickly to something with a little spark in them. ‘In matters of the heart.’

I put my lips together, take a breath, put them back together. Smile, I hope convincingly. ‘I’m not entirely sure what you mean.’

Sansa looks rather pleased with herself, and much older again. ‘You know she does like you. I just don’t think she has had any suitor who could match her before.’

I’m not entirely sure how the conversation has turned so quickly. I’m slightly at a loss for words. ‘Thank you, my lady, but I don’t think -’

‘You just have to be patient. And treat her as Brienne, not as a -’ she looks thoughtful. ‘A usual sort of lady.’

‘That she is not,’ I say, quietly, and steal a glance at her. 

Sansa smiles back.

Podrick bursts in, rather dramatically. ‘My lord.’

‘Yes?’

He doubles over, hands on knees. ‘Lady Arya. And the – Ser – Clegane.’

Sansa stands up.

‘Fighting,’ he says, heaving breaths. ‘Captured.’

Godsdamnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of slightly angsty rock whinyness for Arya (but maybe Podrick has his own perspective on this one): [Raindrops and Sunshowers by Smashing Pumpkins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwp9TuYGa6I).
> 
> Thanks for commenting! It makes my day. :)


	14. The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I’ve been away a while on other fics… but here we are! In case, and totally understandably, you’ve forgotten where we were at, Sandor and Arya were attacked in Braavos by a couple of dudes and then got surrounded by soldiers. Podrick ran back to Jaime (who was ineffectually trying to give romantic advice to Sansa) to tell him they’d been captured. 
> 
> Aaaaaand - ACTION! (Cue rain.)

**Jaime**

‘Water torture. They might be using water torture.’

‘Brienne.’ I give her a bit of a glare as we trudge up the hill. ‘It’s probably best not to speculate.’ 

Sansa is looking worriedly at Podrick. ‘It is true?’ She says to him, and to me. ‘Water torture? What is that?’

‘Nothing, my lady,’ I say, as smoothly as I can. ‘Nothing that will be happening to your sister.’

Her eyes do not grow any less wide with panic.

‘Marvellous,’ I say quietly to Brienne. ‘I think it’s best you stop talking.’

We’re taking the cobbled steps to the Sealord’s Palace, where Podrick saw guards taking Arya and Clegane. Past the tall pillars, carved armed titans atop every one. My heart’s a damned stone. I don’t feel particularly hopeful about this whole enterprise, but going there and appealing for mercy is about all we’ve got at the moment. 

‘I will plead for them,’ says Sansa, and there’s a thread of that bravery her mother always had in her voice.

‘We shouldn’t have brought you,’ says Brienne, gloomily. She is the most dreadfully outward pessimist. At least I disguise mine. ‘They’ll take us all.’

‘If they take one of us, they might as well take us all,’ I say. It’s not like we’ve got much to go on. Four of us can’t storm a palace, even if one of us has battled a bloody bear. We climb the final steps, and my chest’s heaving a bit too much. Gods, I’m getting old.

Two guards step forward from either side of the great door, spears in hands. The door opens and a tall man in green and white, and with one of those Braavosi-style swords, steps out. Looks rather imperious.

Brienne and I unsheath our swords. Podrick does the same, rather less convincingly.

I put on my best no-negotiation face, with a dash of dangerous charm. ‘I am Ser Jaime Lannister. Uncle of the King of the Iron Throne. You are holding two of our number prisoner and we demand their immediate release.’

The man simply looks at me. His eyebrows are like two smaller versions of his sword.

Sansa steps forward and repeats it, or a version of it, in Braavosi, along with hand gestures. She looks confused when he speaks, in a blunt, abrasive tone. ‘He says that there are no prisoners here.’

I glance at Podrick, who nods, definitely. ‘We know full well that there are,’ I say, with what I hope is a cool smile. 

The man shuts the door in our faces. 

‘They were definitely guards from the palace, my lord,’ says Podrick. ‘The same colours. And they crossed that bridge.’

‘Damn it,’ says Brienne. ‘We have nothing, Jaime. Nothing to bargain with.’

I look up at the sky. Grey and unremitting and with absolutely no answers.

The door opens again. The same man. ‘You are enter,’ he says, in a rough approximation of Westerosi.

I shift my weight. Look at Brienne. She looks blank. Shakes her head in a despairing way.

The guard looks bored. ‘You are enter,’ he says again, looking past my ear.

I sheath my sword. ‘Very well.’ If we are all to die, then it might as well be nobly, I think. Though perhaps torture takes the nobility out of it somewhat.

***

**Sandor**

_I am going to die_ , says Arya. Her voice is half its usual size.

The pain in my side is worse than ever. My stomach, too. _You’re not going to die_ , I say, though I feel ready to myself. I shift, or try to.

Wolfgirl looks half-asleep already. Hands holding her belly. Mouth slack. _Am_ , she says, in a croak. _I can’t take any more_.

 _Shut up_ , I say. _You’re not fucking dying_.

***

**Jaime**

We are led through a large building with black and white stones on the floor, and our every movement echoes loudly. Guards watch us from higher points. Out into the rain again, down an interminable number of steps and across a wood-planked bridge, through a tower and onto another bridge, facing a heavily-domed building. Waves lashing the rocks at its base. All the while it’s becoming less and less likely for us to get out alive. Godsdamnit.

‘You’re getting us killed,’ says Brienne in a hiss through her teeth.

‘By all means, blame it on me,’ I say. ‘If it makes you feel better.’ At least she’ll be one of the last people I see while I’m being drowned or stabbed or poisoned. There is that. I’d obviously have to try and kill everyone first, especially if they go after her. 

Sansa is holding onto Podrick’s arm and looking very much as if her sister is dead. I’ll have to defend them all, as best I can.

The man sweeps us into this last part of the palace and stands with his back to the great wooden door. Eyeing us as if we are beetles crushed under his boot. ‘You see,’ he says, cryptically, and pushes the door open. 

It’s not a large room and we take everything in very quickly. There are carcasses everywhere. But not the sort I was expecting. 

The two of them are lying back in carved chairs at a dining table that looks like a field at the end of battle. Scattered lobster shell, fish bones and flesh, bread, and fruit tumbled out everywhere.

How bloody perfect.

***

**Arya**

You open your eyes and the four of them are standing there. Looking both very surprised and very furious.

‘What in the hells?’ says Brienne.

‘ _Arya_ ,’ says Sansa, and you can also hear her say _Sandor_ , far more quietly.

‘Well, this is wonderful,’ says Jaime. ‘There we were risking our lives to come and save you.’

‘How did you risk your lives?’ you say, sitting up to check. They don’t look very dishevelled, any of them. There’s a door-guard standing with them, looking really bored. ‘Did you fight your way in?’

‘They let us in,’ says Sansa. 

The Hound sort of giggles. He has had wine. Quite a bit of wine.

‘You could have sent word,’ says Jaime. ‘That you were not being horribly tortured.’

‘We were going to.’ You give a tiny belch. ‘After we had finished.’ Even Sansa looks quite annoyed.

‘I got a cut,’ says the Hound through a mouthful of raspberries, holding up his arm, looking quite proud. 

‘Why didn’t they kill you? Or put you in cells?’ Brienne looks like she wishes you both were very dead, or at least that the Hound was.

You shrug. ‘Don’t know.’ After you’d been brought here by the guards, you’d used all five Braavosi words that you knew, which didn’t get you anywhere, and then brought your coin out, said the two magic words, and been invited to dine on fifteen courses, including dressed crab and herb butter and potatoes in goose fat and almond sugar-snaps and a slippery orange fruit that you had never eaten before. It had wobbled all down the Hound’s fingers.

‘Podrick, put that down,’ says Brienne, and Podrick puts the lobster claw back on the table.

There are footsteps outside, and everyone turns. A quite short, quite fat man with a greasy-looking face and a floppy black moustache comes in. He is wearing red and brown robes and a thin gold chain around his shoulders and chest.

‘I trust you dined well, Lady Arya,’ he says. His accent makes you think of Syrio’s, lilting and curled at the edges.

‘Yes, thank you,’ you say. ‘Especially the lobster. I’ve never had one of those before.’ Maybe he’s the cook. He’s fat enough. Though a bit too well-dressed.

‘Bit of a fucking arse to eat,’ says the Hound, and the cook glares at him.

‘My lord,’ says Jaime, and you sit up a bit straighter. He seems to know who the man is. ‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance. I’m Ser Jaime Lannister, and may I present to you –’

‘Yes, yes, I know who you all are,’ he says, and you begin to realise that this is actually the First Sealord of Braavos, who is dead important, and you wipe your mouth and kick the Hound under the table. He glares at you. Hiccups. 

The man looks at everyone, one at a time. ‘The Lady Brienne of Tarth,’ he says, and Brienne stands tall and does a stupid, mannish bow-nod thing. ‘The Lady Sansa Stark.’ Your sister does one of her perfect little curtseys and is still giving you and Sandor funny looks. ‘Podrick Payne.’ Podrick nods politely and you try to catch his eye, as you feel a bit guilty about him probably having seen you both hauled off.

The First Sealord’s eyes are on you. They are cool and green, the brightest thing about him. ‘Lady Arya Stark,’ he says, and you give him a sort of wave-bow, still sitting. ‘And Sandor Clegane, also known as The Hound.’

‘Aye, that’s me,’ says the Hound, sounding as proudly self-hating as ever.

‘I was not aware that we were so well known here,’ says Jaime.

‘Oh, we have known you were in Braavos for some time,’ the Sealord says, walking to the table and pouring himself some wine – not that there’s much left, as the Hound glugged most of it down ages ago. He looks a bit annoyed now that the Sealord’s finishing it off.

Jaime seems confused in a way that makes you quite happy. He’s always so bloody smug about everything. ‘Then might I ask –’

The Sealord rubs his thumb along the rim of his goblet. ‘It was thought best, after the skirmish by the Palace of Truth, to conceal you rather better than you have been doing yourselves.’

Brienne looks at the floor, a bit embarrassed.

‘I see,’ says Jaime. ‘And by conceal you mean –’

The Sealord sighs. Everything seems to bore him. ‘Lord Varys alerted me some time ago to your presence in the city. And there has been word of Westerosi sellswords looking for wolf-princesses.’

You give a little shiver. Brienne had been right about people watching her. Some had been watching out for you all, and some had been quite keen to cut yours and Sansa’s throats, like the ones who attacked you earlier. 

‘I gave my agreement to sheltering you if it was necessary,’ says the Sealord, examining a fingernail.

‘You have our thanks,’ says Jaime, quite humbly. 

‘Yes, my lord,’ says Sansa, stepping forward. ‘We are very grateful for any protection that you can give us.’

‘Well, of course your thanks and gratefulness are most appreciated,’ says the Sealord, giving her a slow, deep bow. ‘As is recompense,’ he says, coming back up, and eyeing Jaime. ‘The Lannisters always pay well, I hear.’

‘That is certainly what is said,’ says Jaime. ‘If you don’t mind, may I speak to my party alone for a moment?’

A flicker of mild puzzlement in the Sealord’s face, before he assumes his boredom again. ‘Of course,’ he says, and he and his guards sweep out of the room.

***

**Jaime**

No one speaks for a moment, before Arya scrapes back her chair. ‘Well, that went pretty well,’ she says. ‘We get to stay in this place. The food is way better. No offence, Podrick.’

‘None taken, my lady,’ says Podrick, who is still eyeing the leftover food quite wishfully.

Sansa is moving slowly round the table towards Clegane.

I’ve a tightening feeling in my chest and my stomach, because I know that I have to do something that I’ve never done before. ‘That’s not a certainty,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’ says Arya, picking up a heel of bread and throwing it to Podrick, who beams and starts eating. 

‘I thought you were both dead,’ Sansa says, quite quietly to Sandor.

Clegane sits up a bit straighter, looks less drunk. ‘Not dead,’ he says, and holds out a handful of raspberries. She takes one from him, and I’m fairly sure that he winks at her.

‘Well, he wants paying,’ I say.

‘Yes. Well, I suppose not everything comes for free,’ says Brienne, walking over to the table herself and picking up a boiled potato. ‘And?’

‘And there’s a small problem with that.’

‘What?’ she says, popping the potato in her mouth.

‘We’re out of money.’

Everyone stops eating and looks at me. 

Brienne chews slowly, swallows. ‘What do you mean?’ she says, shrewdly, as if I perhaps uttered something accidentally.

‘Exactly what I say.’

Her eyes seem to narrow and widen at the same time. ‘You mean we have no money at all?'

It’s really almost a liberating feeling. Being poor. ‘Absolutely none.’

Clegane laughs. ‘Bloody brilliant. A skint Lannister. Never thought I’d live to hear that one.’

‘Jaime,’ says Brienne. ‘If we can’t pay him, then what are we to do? We can’t go back to living in Morro’s house now. People know too much. You heard what he said about sellswords.’

I’m feeling rather empty. As if I’m simply full of sea-air. ‘We’ll have to leave,’ I say. ‘Head somewhere else.’

‘And pay the captain of our next boat _how_?’ she says. 

I feel a little giddy. Everyone really always did rely on me rather. 

‘No fucking way,’ says Arya. ‘No way are we staring at each other in some shithole in Pentos or wherever when we could be staying _here_. I can train with water dancers. They have lobster. For _lunch_.’ She picks up her crutch and hops over to the door before any of us can stop her.

By the time we follow her out into the great hall, she’s already talking about her swordplay to the First Sealord and his guards. ‘I was learning to be a water-dancer. The Braavosi style is so much better,’ she says, and begins swirling her sword about. It’s sweetly impressive, even if she’s still rather hampered by the leg.

The First Sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, who seems a sagacious man for all his play of being bored witless by the lot of us, watches her, his hands behind his back.

Arya holds her sword in a pose front of her in the air, both hands on the hilt, quite stylishly, I suppose. ‘Syrio Forel taught me,’ she says. 

Antaryon raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Syrio Forel,’ he says, not a question. ‘A great man.’

‘He was, my lord,’ says Arya, sheathing her little sword and bowing in the Braavosi style. ‘The greatest of men. He was killed at King’s Landing. By the same people who want to kill us.’

‘And where did you get your coin?’ he says. His voice is a shade more benevolent when talking to her. 

‘Jaqen H’gar, my lord,’ she says, leaning on her crutch. ‘From the House of Black and White.’

‘You seem to have many Braavosi friends.’ 

‘I like Braavos,’ she says. ‘I wish I’d come here earlier.’

Antaryon smiles. A soft spot for little fighting girls. Well, I suppose someone has to have one. 

‘Thanks for sheltering us here,’ says Arya, and he bows again, quite graciously. ‘Is it alright if we pay you after a bit?’

He goes rather still. 

‘Ser Jaime’s just got to meet with the Iron Bank,’ she says, perfectly innocently.

He looks at me and I try to give my best, most utterly oblique smile. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I would not be so uncivilised as to insist on coin in my hand at this instant. You may pay me as soon as you have the money. Though as I said, protection does not come for free.’

‘Of course,’ I say, and we all bow at each other, for the hundredth time.

***

**Sandor**

_This is going to be brilliant_ , says Wolfgirl, hopping down the hallway in front of me. 

I’m a bit in my cups still. Braavosi wine tastes like cow’s piss, but wine is wine. After realising we weren’t being taken to have our guts cut out of us, I felt like having one or two. Or five.

Sansa’s still looking at me like she might want to shout at me a bit. Wouldn’t mind that too much. Wouldn’t mind anything of her too much. Gods, she’s so fucking – 

_Do you think they would let Gendry stay here too_? Arya says. The squire looks round at her.

 _No_ , I say. _He’s a fucking blacksmith_.

She glares at me. _He’s my friend_ , she says. 

_Ay, you and all your Braavosi friends_ , I say. _And your bloody sword-swishing_.

 _Well, I got us to stay here, didn’t I_? she says, all smug.

 _You did_ , says Lannister, who still looks a bit green about the money thing. Fucking perfect, that. _And I’m grateful. I suppose I’ll take this room_ , he says, looking in a doorway. _We should still stay close together, I think. Keep close_. He looks at Tarth.

 _Yes, well_ , she says. _I’ll take a room next to the girls_. 

Arya rolls her eyes. Sansa glances at me. 

_Fine_ , I say, and let them divvy up the chambers, which are on two floors, split with a balcony. The sisters and the milk-cow upstairs and us two and the squire down on this level. 

I stand there, needing a piss and a shit – I’m as full of food as I’ve been since a feast-day at King’s Landing - looking up at the balcony. Sansa comes back out and puts her hand on the wooden rail. _We’ve got our own bathhouse room_ , she says down to me, half a girl again, and then bites her lip as if she’s said something she shouldn’t.

 _Oh ay_ , I say, wondering how many steps it’ll take to get between their room and mine, and how quiet she can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS RADIO THEME TIME HOUR:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Arya is just struttin' around the Sealord's crib, feeling badass and chipper and throwing out her water-dancer shapes, spittin' rhymes along with Missy Elliott. [The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHcyJPTTn9w)
> 
> PS Thanks to ZoeSong for the high-gloss edit!


	15. It Can't Rain All The Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta to ZoeSong for giving it a quick comb-through!

**Sandor**

_Sandor_ , she says, into my unburnt cheek.

 _Ay_ , I say, into her neck.

 _I think there’s someone coming_ , she says.

We go still, the pair of us, me with my arm round Sansa’s waist, which is so small I can get round to the other side of her. I breathe into her hair, which smells of flowers, because she’s been bathing, and though I miss the wood-smell of her, the onion smell and the dirt, this palace version of her isn’t so bad.

The stone seat behind the curtain with the green edge. The corner underneath the steps by the feast-room. The bottom of the curling stone staircase, just out of all the torchlights, where we are now.

Best thing about this place isn’t the food. It’s how many more places there are to grab her hand and take her to, to press her up against the wall and put my mouth on her and think about all the things I shouldn’t.

I’m still listening. Footsteps were somewhere above us, and have got quieter. _We’re alright_ , I say.

 _Yes, we are_ , she says, and puts her hand on my beard again.

***

**Arya**

‘Brought you something,’ you say, and dig a brown cloth package out of your pocket.

Gendry looks at it, while you open it, and show him the cheese, sugared almonds, chicken and candied plums. ‘You’ve fallen on your feet,’ he says.

Being in the palace has been excellent.

It’s bigger than Winterfell, and everyone seems to like you because you can water-dance a bit and because you knew Syrio Forel, and because you say ‘Valar Morghulis’ to everyone like a greeting. You’re not cooped up with the others, bumping into them coming out of a room as you’re going in, or smelling their chamber pots, or hearing the Hound stuff his face and do that funny humming thing he does when he crunches on a bone. Well, you still hear that a bit when you are all dining, but at least the food is about a thousandfold more interesting than mutton stew every night.

You didn’t really realise how much you missed really good food. And it’s only fair that you share it.

Of course, Jaime and Brienne and the Hound all said you weren’t to go back out into the city, but now that you knew Gendry was there, right there, you weren’t going to stay holed up in the palace, however nice it was. Instead, you asked the Sealord for some guards and said you had important business, and amazingly, he waved a hand and six men came with you. 

Gendry keeps looking at them, a bit nervously. 

‘It’s ok,’ you say, quite dismissively. ‘They’ll kill anyone who comes near me.’

‘Right,’ he says.

He’d looked pleased to see you, once he got over his alarm at seeing the guards. Wiped his grimy hands on a cloth and sat down to talk, and even though it had been so long since you had seen each other, it felt like someone had simply clapped their hands and time had switched from your last time together in the Riverlands to this moment, now, at the smithy’s.

‘What happened to you?’ you said, watching him bite into the plum. ‘With the Red Woman?’

‘Quite a lot,’ he said, digging the plum stone out with his fingers.

‘Like what?’

‘I was imprisoned at Dragonstone.’ He had always had a way of speaking – a bit like Podrick, actually – that made everything seem very usual, and it takes you a moment before you realise the weight of what he is saying.

‘Why? What did Stannis want with a blacksmith?’

Gendry tosses the plum stone to the ground. ‘I’m his nephew. Apparently.’

Your jaw drops. ‘How?’ you say. 

He laughs through his nose, though it’s not a happy one. ‘I suppose my mother had a visit from the king.’

Robert. Fat, drunk, believing Joffrey over you, ordering Sansa’s wolf to be killed. ‘Bastard,’ you say.

‘Exactly,’ he says back, sliding his eyes along to you. 

You both grin.

***

**Jaime**

‘Stop bloody laughing.’ 

Arya’s been in her element, watching the water dancers train and learning a little from them. And now Brienne’s doing it too, having pushed herself off the wall and approached two of the men with a nod. Clegane and I are watching from the side and, if I’m completely honest, acting like a couple of ale-merry boys. 

‘No one’s laughing,’ I say to her. 

Clegane snorts a bit. ‘Thought you wanted to be a man, not prance around like a bloody ten foot tall girl.’

‘You couldn’t do it if you tried,’ she says to him.

We have been in the Sealord’s Palace for two days, and I must admit that being within fine castle walls again has a certain appeal. The beds are comfortable, we are treated well, and there are gardens, very fine – all that bloody rain, keeping everything so green. It’s rather good to let one’s guard down a notch. Unless this is one extremely elaborate double-cross – and part of me still wouldn’t put that past Varys – then we’re safer than any of us have been since leaving King’s Landing.

‘Think I want to?’ says Clegane, spitting. I move my boot just in time. ‘I’d sooner cut my own throat.’

‘At least I’m open to it,’ she says, and glares at both of us. 

‘It’s just – it’s called water dancing, Brienne,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure that it is quite your forte, this style. It’s rather – florid.’

She looks marvellously stroppy. The corner of her mouth doing its own sword-swipe. ‘I’d like to see _you_ bloody dance.’

‘I would be very happy to display my dancing prowess with you, my lady.’

‘Not a chance,’ she says.

‘Shame,’ I say.

Sandor looks between us both, and shakes his head. ‘Spare me.’

‘What?’ I say, as Brienne goes back to her delightful plodding, out of earshot.

‘Just get your fucking cock out and be done with it,’ he says. ‘You’re practically waving it in her fucking face already.’ 

‘You are an extraordinarily vulgar man,’ I say, and watch her at work, trying not to think about doing exactly that.

***

**Arya**

You’ve been talking to Gendry for ages. Finnbar, his master at the smithy, keeps coming over and muttering things that sound like threats, but Gendry just says a few words and he goes off again, clanging metal a bit louder.

‘What did you just say to him?’

‘I’ll make the time up later,’ he says, and your insides stitch together knowing that he’s wanting to be with you. You’ve got so much to catch up on, and it feels like you’ve never been away from each other, except for the fact that you’ve done about a thousand things since then, some of which you’ve now told him. The Hound and your fights, Polliver, Jaime and Sansa, Gregor.

‘I’m glad you’re alright,’ says Gendry to the ground, nicking the quickest glance at you. ‘When I heard what happened at the Twins, I thought that you’d be dead.’

‘I’m not dead.’

‘You’re not.’ His eyes are like two smacks in the face. You had forgotten quite how blue they were. ‘How did you end up staying with him? The Hound?’

‘Oh,’ you say, digging your toes into the dust. ‘Didn’t have many other choices.’ You can’t really think of the moment when it became more than your only option. When you realised that you would sooner stay with him than another. ‘Thought you might be dead, too,’ you say. ‘Ser Gendry.’

He looks at his feet again, with a half-smile. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘No. You’re a _lord_ now, or something.’ 

‘I’m none of those. I’m just me.’ You remembered how many times you’d said something very similar.

‘You who happens to be a Baratheon.’

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he says.

The first thing you had thought when he had said _nephew_ – well, the second thing, after _what the fucking holy fucking seven fucking hells_ – was that you would tell Sansa. ‘Why not?’

He takes a breath in, but the words don’t come, only another breath. ‘I don’t think it’s done me much good, so far.’

‘What do you mean?’ He hadn’t said much else about what had happened. Only that he had rowed, a lot, and been picked up by a merchant ship. 

‘Another time,’ he says, quite quietly.

‘But you – you could come back with me. To the palace. You’re –’ you were about to say _you’re important_ , or _you’re one of us_ , and realise how awful that would sound. He’s still important. To you. ‘I won’t,’ you say.

He scratches the back of his head, and you try not to look at his arm again. It looks more muscled than you remember. Maybe from all the blacksmithing. ‘I don’t know. Does it make you think of me any differently?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. You’re still just a blacksmith from Fleabottom to me.’

He looks confused.

You look at your fingernails and try to ignore the little thudding of your heart, which is like a tiny warhammer on a wooden door. ‘And I like blacksmiths from Fleabottom.’

He is still looking at the floor, but his smile grows a tiny bit wider. ‘All of them?’

You look at him. Shake your head. 

***

**Sandor**

Evening. I stand outside their room, telling myself not to knock.

There’s little to do here, though I know it’s for the best. We spent dinner hearing Wolfgirl yap on about her blacksmith friend – need to keep an eye on that – and most of the time I was just watching Sansa eat and imagining her mouth around a few other things. Well, one other thing. 

Can’t tell if it’s worse or better for her and me, being here. We’re around people who know us, more people who know it isn’t right, her carrying on with the mid-born scum. But part of me doesn’t care. I’ve got this far. We’re not in Westeros. 

Fuck it. I knock.

No answer. I gently turn the handle, tell myself I’m just checking on her anyway. The room’s empty, though it looks like a storm has come through. All their things – hers and her sister’s, which makes me not want to go near them – scattered over the floor and the bed, which itself looks the scene of a fight-to-the-death. Bloody princesses.

I look at the door to their little bathing-room. I know she’s in there. Sound of water like tumbling coins. I knock. 

The coins stop. _Arya_? she says, very quietly.

Nope, I say to the wood. Wolfgirl’s out in the yard with the squire and some new poncy sword-friends she’s made, doing some evening sparring.

A silence. _I’m – I’m bathing_ , she says.

I bloody know that, I think, and wait. She’s not saying anything. Damn it. 

Bugger it. I open the door. There’s a sound like a panicked whale in the shallows and by the time I look she’s sitting up, legs drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, eyes wide as lagoons.

In the candlelight, she’s all tallow, a dull gleam on her. I kneel down next to her, the bones of my knees crunching. 

_Lie back_ , I say. Something’s taken over me a little, now that I’m here. Being inside these walls makes me think of the Red Keep and all the things I should have done then, if she’d let me. 

Shadows flicker on her face. I hear her swallow, like the click of a key in a door. And slowly, she does as I ask, stretching herself out, the water yielding to her.

I lean my elbows on the side of the tub, put my chin down, and just look.

She’s all I want, all I’ll ever want. Her body in the water is moss-green from the shadows, mermaid-coloured. She’s been shaped by a master-craftsman, with lathes and fine polishing-cloths. Flat stomach, glowing triangle of hair, fine tiny flames of hair on her legs.

Takes me a while to realise that her breath’s coming like a small animal’s and when I bring my eyes to her face, I see how frightened she is. That there’s hurt and fear there. 

I’ve gone too far, coming in, not asking. I jerk up. _I’m sorry_ , I say.

She presses her lips together, tightly shakes her head. 

_What, then_? I say.

 _I just_ – she says. There’s moss-water in her eyes, too. She brings herself to look at me. _All the time, at King’s Landing_ , she says. _I was looked at. Stared at. It’s all I was there for. As I got older. He’d say ‘keep her pretty.’_

My gut tugs like I’m a slave on a rope. 

_The guards looked at me like I was a piece of uncooked meat_ , she says. _They all did. In court, in the gardens. I always felt like I was on show, for sale. Just a girl who was going to get_ – she shuts her eyes. _He told me all the time what would happen to me someday. He said I would get what I deserved._

Fucking gods. I should have strangled him with his own intestines while he slept. He’s dead now, but he’s damaged her, just as he wanted. And I feel guilt stir up like the burnt bits at the bottom of a stew-pan for knowing I was one of those guards, once, staring.

 _Alright, little bird_ , I say, beginning to move, not looking at her, feeling sick.

 _No_ – she says, and sits up again, clutching the side of the bathtub with both hands. Her knuckles gleam wax. She takes one big breath and lets it come out like one of her sister's sword-swishes. _I don’t mean you. You know I don’t. It’s just – hard to be looked at. To be - like this. Do you understand? It just – it takes time._

I look at her knee, and the shine on it from the water and the light. I put my hand out, onto it, feel her tremble, make myself keep it there, feel her calm. _Ay_ , I say.

We stay like that. A few moments.

 _I want to get out now_ , she says, mostly in a whisper. I know it’s not for what I’d like. I stand, find her a blanket, and she rises, water running of her like jewels, steps out, lets me wrap her up in it. 

She stands there, tucked up, bare-legged, her chin tilted up at me, shivering noisily. Not ‘cause she’s cold. She’s had so much fear in her of being touched that it’s coming out in the fits of a madman. I put my arms around her shoulders, bring her in to me, a sadness like an iron press on my chest. I want her more than anything.

The sound of Arya, shouting, and I get the hells out of there, quick.

I lie alone in bed, the damp of her hair still inked on my shirt.

***

**Jaime**

It's late. Sleep's as realistic as a dry, sunny Braavos day. Too much of Brienne in my head, stomping around with those water-dancers. I think I may have been too cruel, though that was hardly my intention.

I practically walk into Podrick, who's dawdling in the hallway of our rooms on the lower floor. 

'Watch where you're going, Podrick, for the gods' sakes,' I say.

His face falls and practically begins mopping the floor. 'I'm sorry, my lord,' he says.

'Alright, never mind,' I say, less harshly. The boy's been moping about since we took lodgings here at the palace. 'Get to bed, why don't you?'

'I couldn't sleep.'

Him too. 'Try counting pretty ladies jumping a fence. That's what I always do.' I deign to add that more recently in my mind's eye it's been a certain someone eyeing the fence, half-attempting to clamber it before smashing it to pieces with Valerian steel. 

'Ay, my lord,' he says, rather despondently, giving a small bow and wandering towards his doorway.

Outside, the air is cool and fine-grained. There's a large, still shadow over to my right, leaning on a stone balcony, that can only be one person. 

I join Brienne. You can’t distinguish the line between sea and sky, such is the mist and rain. ‘Can’t sleep?’ I say.

‘Not yet.’

She’s bathed, I think. She’s not in her armour, and I can smell something faint, like thyme-leaf.

‘I enjoyed seeing you dancing,’ I say.

She doesn’t turn. ‘Could have fooled me.’

‘You know that I don’t have a hope in seven hells of doing any water dancing with this.’ I hold up my hand, which I’m beginning to think I need to sell. Get something rather less showy made. Perhaps Arya’s blacksmith boy could help me there. It had never occurred to me to get rid of it before, because Cersei had it made for me, even if it was to cover up the shame of my deformity. Now I’m starting to look at it and just want to shake it off.

Brienne glances at it, with not the slightest shred of sympathy. ‘Well, it doesn’t mean you have to make me the court fool.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘It’s good you not having money,’ she says, quite bluntly. ‘It separates you from your family name a little more.’

‘There aren’t too many despoiling my family name these days.’ Joffrey. Tywin. Only one, really, with her hair the same colour as this dull gold bloody hand.

‘There are enough.’

I need to forget Cersei. Once and for all. She’s sent sellswords to kill the girls, if not all of us – if she kept me alive now, I’m fairly sure it would only be to have my bollocks served up on a shining feast plate for her to eat, whilst I watched. ‘I am sure you are right,’ I say.

Brienne simply breathes in, which is naturally the sound of a distant hurricane. She’s slowly calming, though not as much as everyone else, being here.

‘I enjoyed watching you, Brienne.’ I shift marginally closer. ‘Truly.’

Brienne doesn’t say anything, but I’m fairly sure that there’s a change in the air. A stiffening, though something rather resigned, too. A mouse aware that it’s being tracked by something with rather bigger claws. 

I put my hand on the balcony next to hers. Her hand is damp from being out in the rain, and has a staunchness to the flesh. A raw knuckle. She watches mine, as if she might possibly chop it off if I get any closer. I move it closer anyway. A prickling sensation on my neck, which is both the drizzle and a sense of anticipatory wonder that she hasn’t yet attacked me.

‘Brienne,’ I say, and put my hand on top of hers. It’s cool and warm at once. She seems to have stopped moving, or breathing. ‘You must know.’ 

I want to take her in my arms. I want to kiss that place on her neck. I want to do rather a lot of things. But for now, I thank several of the Seven at once that I’ve got this far – her holding my hand when I was practically passed out does not quite count – without her bludgeoning me to a bloody pulp.

It feels like a dreadfully long moment, with her standing stiffly, eyeing our hands sidelong, and I finally take a breath to say something else when she whips her hand away, brutally quick, and stalks off. 

I stare out to sea. Well, that could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR:  
>   
> 
> [It Can’t Rain All The Time by Jane Siberry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNOMQwTdmto). I just know in my blood that Brienne likes dark ‘90s power ballad-y torch songs.


	16. It's Raining Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta as ever to the wondrous ZoeSong for her incisive little edit!

**Jaime**

‘Good morning,’ I say, in my best soft-edged murmur.

‘Morning,’ Brienne says, in her best cool, half-questioning, half-challenging tone.

The others have disappeared already and she’s the only one, apart from a guard at the door, who is left at the table, staring gloomily at the heels of bread and shreds of meat as if they’re remnants of a horde of knights she’s just slain.

I sigh, quite noisily and cheerily as I sit down, moving the chair very close to hers. Pour myself some ale – it’s Braavosi piss, but it’s ale nonetheless – and lean in front of her a little to collect a knife. She leans backwards, as if I’m poisonous.

I lay awake half the night with the memory of her hand underneath mine. Held my own in the air to imagine it there. She had let me touch her. I jerk my head at the guard, more than once, until he raises his eyes to the roof and clanks out of the room.

I break my fast, not saying anything, watching her. 

Brienne’s eyes are on the table. ‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Looking at me.’ 

‘I don’t want to.’ Something has happened to me since last night. My patience and decorum lightly shredded. If this is ever going to happen, it has to be me, pushing it through.

Her jaw sets and she gives me a wide, wary sidelong stare, about as happy as a cow at market. ‘What do you want?’ 

I put down my piece of bread, soften my voice. ‘You know what I want.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jaime.’ Her mouth hardly moves, the words forced through it like victims off a ship-plank.

I push my chair back. ‘What’s so ridiculous about wanting you?’

She eyes the far wall, shakes her head. 

‘For gods’ sakes, Brienne. When you’ve steel in your hand, you’ve the confidence of ten men. Why is it so hard without it?’ I lean my elbows on my thighs, and she shifts marginally backwards to retain the same amount of space between us.

‘You’re mocking me.’

‘I’m doing nothing of the sort. You’re a fine –’ even _my_ tongue is shy, for once. I take a deep breath. ‘You’re a fine woman. Strong. Brave, braver than any man I know. And beautiful.’

Her chair clatters over as she stands up. She looks about ready to knock me senseless. ‘Don’t,’ she says in a hiss.

‘What?’ I hold my arm up, try not to smile. Smiling seems to just rile her further.

She looks fearsome, and yet when she blinks, there’s something almost breakable there, for half a moment. ‘For my whole life I’ve walked with the sound of the same words ringing in my ears. Brienne the Beauty. Everywhere I went. The men–at-arms in my own castle on Tarth, in Renly’s camp, even –’ she tosses her head like a bull. ‘Even the suitors my father dug up for me. I hate that word. Because those men – _all_ of them – meant the opposite.’

I sit back and look at her squarely. ‘I mean it truly.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I wouldn’t lie.’

‘You lie all the time. You’re more convincing lying than you are telling the truth.’

I have to give her that one. It’s an art I’ve finely honed. ‘I don’t lie to _you_. I’m not lying now.’

There’s an expulsion of air from her like a horse in labour. The wall appears to be exceptionally fascinating.

‘Just – sit down again, will you?’ I say.

A little of both parts of her sigil – the paleness of the moon and the gold of the sun, in her hair, her cheeks. Slowly, very slowly, her shoulders drop, and she rights the chair and sits down again on it. 

I move mine closer. ‘I’ll tell you again. You’re beautiful.’ _You’re the most beautiful woman except Cersei_ , I think and don’t say. 

She looks unutterably sad. And still like she might hit me.

I take her hand and she looks at it. 

‘Glad I’ve still got _one_ of these. I knew it would come in useful one of these days,’ I say and there’s the faintest hint of an eye-roll. 

I bring her hand, which has the warmth of meat that’s been left in the sun, to my lips. Kiss it, where her thumb curls over her forefinger. Pray that she doesn’t break my jaw. 

She emits a tiny breath, like a flag on a windy hill in the distance.

‘There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I say.

***

**Arya**

‘Want to play a game?’

Podrick looks up. He’s been a bit more careful around you since you’ve been in the palace, and you know why and don’t want to think about it. ‘Of course, my lady. Which one?’

‘Whichever.’ You sit down next to him, lean on your elbow, pull a face. 

He smiles at you. Still a bit carefully.

He had kissed you and it was nice. It _was_ nice. And now Gendry is here and you really can’t ask Podrick to kiss you any more, or even think about it. You really wish you hadn’t ever asked him. You had done it all wrong. And so now you were trying to make it better again.

‘We’re going out later. Guards and all. Want to come?’

He is laying out stones. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Jamie’s going to get his hand melted.’ Podrick glances up. ‘His gold one. To pay for us staying here. And get a cheaper one made out of iron.’

‘At the blacksmith’s?’ he says, looking at the table, moving sticks around.

‘Yeah, obviously.’ Gendry had said that Finnbar would do it, being the master blacksmith. That he hadn’t done a hand before and didn’t want to get it wrong.

Podrick swallows, a tiny movement. ‘I think Lady Brienne wanted my help here,’ he says, quietly and matter-of-factly.

‘Oh. Ok,’ you say, and feel worse than ever.

***

**Sandor**

_Well, here it is_ , says Lannister, taking his hand off.

Lannister, without a coin to his name. I’m still laughing over that one. I’ve gone – with those bloody white and green guards in tow, which is a fucking odd feeling, not being the one watching – to the smith’s with him and the sisters. Arya said the blacksmith was her friend so she would come, and for some reason Sansa seemed to want to and all.

The Westerosi lad’s sullen-looking, apart from hard, bright bloody eyes. Looks at me oddly. Don’t remember him at all, no matter what Arya’s said. 

_What are you looking at?_ I say.

 _Nothing_ , he says, a blank bloody face, crossing his arms.

I watch Sansa meet him, see how close they are in age, how she is with him. Ay, and that would be my fucking luck. Arya’s looking between them, like she’ll cut them both to pieces if they say the wrong thing. 

Lannister takes his hand off, hands it to the older smith, who’s a fat cunt with half his teeth gone. Some good-looking swords behind him though. _I’m trusting you with that_ , Lannister says, and the lad translates. 

The older smith nods and waves his hand around. Gestures for Lannister to sit, to measure him up. Puts a string around his wrist, marks it. The same with his fingers. We’re all standing back, watching. I look at Sansa, at the way her back curves into her arse, which I can make out from under that cloak. Which I know from touching her there. I glance at the lad, who’s leaning against the wall waiting to speak the smith’s Braavosi words again if needs be, and I’m ready to gnaw his head off if he’s looking in the same direction. He’s not, though. He’s staring at Wolfgirl, who’s wandering around picking up helms.

 _The fuck you think you’re doing?_ I say, not so’s anyone else can hear.

The lad blinks. _What do you mean?_ he says. Nothing. Blue eyes brimming bloody wells of guilt. Little shit.

 _You’re looking at that girl_ , I say.

He swallows. Shrugs. _I’m allowed to look_ , he says.

 _No, you’re fucking not_ , I say.

He looks at me for as long as he dares, and seems to give a half-smile. Bit rueful. Sniffs and looks at the floor.

Cheeky little fuck.

***

**Arya**

‘He’s very handsome,’ Sansa says back at the palace, and flashes you a big-sister look that is extremely annoying.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ you say, polishing your sword with a great deal of intent. She and Gendry had met and you’d hated the idea that he might think her pretty, which obviously he would have. But at least she wasn’t too flowery about the whole thing. She was just nice to him, and kept doing that stupid wide-eyed, blinky thing at the Hound.

When you look at her again, she is grinning at her skirts. Kicking her legs like a three year-old.

‘Shut up,’ you say.

‘I’m not saying anything so I can’t shut up,’ she says, looking totally pleased. 

‘We’re just friends,’ you say. 

‘Of course,’ she says.

‘He doesn’t think of me like that,’ you say to your sword.

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’ 

‘How do you think of him?’ Her voice has gone more serious, kindly. 

You go to lie, and can’t quite be bothered. ‘I don’t know. I like him. Quite a lot.’ You kick the floor. 

‘I’m sure he likes you, too,’ she says. She doesn’t even care that he’s supposed to only be a blacksmith. The old Sansa would have been horrified and tried hard to marry you off to some lordly idiot-breath. Now that she’s all dribbly over the Hound, she’s not allowed to be like that any more. Gendry’s more noble than _him_ , you manage not to shout.

You’re not sure why anyone would like you. You can’t really believe that Podrick does. But Gendry – you saw a couple of Braavosi girls, dressed in bright yellow, floating past the smithy’s three times, sneaking looks over. And wanted to smash their faces in. 

Sansa is still watching you, and seems to know to change the subject by the way you’re scowling at your own weapon. ‘Something is happening between Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne.’

You screw your nose up. ‘Like what? Did you catch them fucking?’

‘No, of course not. _Arya._ Just –’ she looks at her nails and beams at you. ‘I’m sure something is happening.’

***

**Sandor**

There’s a knock. I know all of their knocks – Lannister’s is always an even four, Tarth practically bashes it in, Arya kicks the door with her good toe, and the squire is so damned quiet you can hardly hear it, and he usually coughs as well. This is none of those. Everything she bloody does _dances_.

 _Hello_ , she says, when I answer, and walks past me. I swallow, close the door quietly.

 _Bit late, isn’t it_? I say, carefully.

Her face changes. _Were you sleeping_? she says.

 _I don’t sleep in my clothes_ , I say, and even in this half-light I can see her cheeks darken. _No_ , I say, in a voice that sounds less like I’m about to chew her dress off with my teeth. Shouldn’t think about that. _Takes me a while to sleep_.

She nods, a little one, and I see that older part of her return. Like it’s a drink she has to take a sip of, to make her taller, calmer, more brave. _Can I stay here for a bit_? she says. 

I understand it. One step in front of the other, each one of them nearer madness than the last. But making her feel safer each time. _Ay_ , I say, as if it’s nothing. Pour her some wine.

She sits on the bed, looks around at my things and the things in the room. _Do you know any stories_? she says. 

_Not many fit for your ears_ , I say, sitting next to her.

She looks a bit put out, her bottom lip growing fat. _I’m not a child_ , she says. _I’ve seen enough. I know what men are. And women_.

Can’t help grinning at her. _You haven’t spent time in a garrison_ , I say. _The things you hear. A man_ – I almost say fucking – _lying with a bear. A woman lying with a squid_. I don’t say three women, which is the real story. _And enough blood and death to keep the Stranger happy for a long while_.

_Oh_ , she says. 

_You tell me one_ , I say, and settle back against my pillows, stretch my legs out. She looks at them. Moves over a bit and rests her head down, just above my knees, facing away from me. For someone who seems to float around like air half the time, her head’s bloody heavy. Full of thoughts. Tells me a story about some old woman in a Northern forest, how she was once a knight – bloody woman-knights – 

I hardly listen. Her hair’s spread out on my thighs, and I fold my fingers through it. It’s like lakewater. Her voice is a little knobbled path, rising and falling. The candle sputters low, throwing shadows on the wall, and I swear old faces I know are in there, looking at me, saying what the fuck do you think you’re doing with her? 

It’s gone quiet. 

_Did you like it_? she says, rolling onto her back, and I still can’t believe she’s here, lying on my bed. Lying on me. 

_Ay_ , I say. 

_Liar_ , she says, putting her palms on her stomach. _You weren’t even listening_. 

_I was_ , I say, and grin again when her glare grows harder. _Some. Was thinking about other things_. 

The glare becomes serious, and she sits up. Brings her hair into one falling drape over her shoulder, and looks at my mouth. I stop smiling. 

_I’m almost ready_ , she says. 

__The candle flame flickers madly, as if the wind's come in._ _

Ready for what? I go to say, but I look at her, and I know, and my whole heart caves in. _Are you_? I say, very quiet, wondering if I am. 

Her eyes drift to the floor, as if she’s listening for something. Then she takes a breath in. _Yes_ , she says, and kisses me goodnight. 

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__‘Made something for you.’_ _

__You have gone with Jaime and Brienne, who are being a bit odd, it’s definitely true, back to the smithy’s. There’s a bit of an argument over how much gold Jaime owes Finnbar from his old hand for the work he’s done, and Gendry has to step in. But eventually Jaime is wearing this dull new hand, looking at it like it’s a mangy dog he has to look after. It needs tightening a little at the wrist, and Finnbar takes it back to whack at it a bit._ _

__Now Gendry has found you idling round the back under a little awning. He is holding something wrapped in a grubby cloth._ _

__‘What is it?’_ _

__He just nods down to it. You unwrap the cloth, and – it’s a dagger. It has a wolf’s head on the pommel. You stare at it._ _

__‘I know you’ve got your sword already, but – it can’t hurt to have another weapon.’_ _

__You still don’t say anything._ _

__‘I did it one night. So Finnbar couldn’t see that I’d nicked the steel.’_ _

__There are leaves at the bottom of the hilt, and the grip is curved, and fits perfectly into your hand._ _

__‘Don’t you like it?’_ _

__You look up then. Nod. Blink. ‘Thank you. It’s – no one’s – it’s beautiful.’_ _

__He looks a bit relieved._ _

__You stand there, feeling like an idiot, holding it, with your whole head an empty hole of no words._ _

__‘Are you alright?’ he says._ _

__‘You made it for me.’_ _

__‘Yes.’ He sits down on the step, and you sit down next to him. Try not to look at the curved muscle at the top of his arm._ _

__‘Why?’ Your voice is dead quiet, like cobwebs._ _

__‘Because you’re my friend.’_ _

__Your heart smashes a fist into itself. Shit. ‘Oh.’_ _

__‘Well, of course you are, Arya. My – you were my best friend, once.’_ _

__‘Was I?’_ _

__‘Wasn’t I? To you, I mean?’_ _

__You swallow, nod. _Friends_. You were right._ _

__But he is still looking at you. ‘I didn’t forget what you said to me. About – being your family.’_ _

__You can’t ask Gendry if he has kissed anyone. Fucked anyone. When you asked Podrick that, which seems like ages ago, you were just trying to make him blush. But you would rather slam your sword up into your throat and through your nose and into your brain than ask Gendry that._ _

__‘I missed you,’ you say, and you sound about five years old._ _

__He smiles. ‘I missed you, too.’ He scratches the back of his head, as if to make the words lighter. ‘Thought about you every day.’_ _

__Maybe – maybe he doesn’t just mean friends. Family._ _

__‘Arya.’_ _

__You look at him, at his blue eyes, and before you can even really take it in, he has leant over to you, and his head is right there, and he has kissed you._ _

__He pulls back, but his mouth is still very close to yours. He is watching you as if to check that you won’t punch him, or stab him with your new dagger._ _

__You don’t punch him. Or stab him._ _

__***_ _

__**Jaime** _ _

__‘Well, it’s certainly less shiny.’ I’m on one of the balconies, looking at my new hand, which is made of iron and is patched here and there where the metal is a darker and more dense. It’s much lighter – good in one way, as my elbow has a little relief, but at the same time it reminds me rather more that I’ve no hand there. It feels like air._ _

__‘You did the right thing,’ Brienne says, unfussily. Never one to comfort me, not even when I lost my real hand the first time. But things were rather different between us then._ _

__I’ve paid the Sealord for accommodating us, and he took the gold with a rather surprised grace. It’s just as well – there was probably only so long that Arya’s puckish larking about could keep us here. There’s a little kept back for safekeeping, and Brienne’s been trusted with some too, so it’s not all in one place, but nonetheless – it’s still weighing on me that money is not an endless resource any longer. We can’t stay here forever._ _

__I hold both palms, flesh and metal, uppermost and stare at them. ‘It’s not Cersei’s, either.’ I glance up at Brienne, who flushes. I’m rather enjoying this new Brienne, colour dashing into her cheeks at the slightest suggestion of – well, anything, really._ _

__I smile. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day.’_ _

__‘You’ve been walking next to me all day,’ she says. ‘It’s not surprising.’_ _

‘Don’t you want to know _what_ I’ve been thinking?’ I stand a little closer. It’s evening, and unless I’m mistaken and have been chewing on a bunch of henbane leaves, it seems to have stopped raining. 

__‘Jaime,’ she says._ _

‘What?’ I say, in my gentlest murmur. How she does not realise that, apart from Cersei, she’s the first person I’ve ever thought of, ever admired and seen as my equal, the first person since I was bloody _born_ – 

__‘It’s – it’s not appropriate.’_ _

__‘What isn’t?’_ _

__‘Whatever you’re about to do.’ She sounds almost panicked._ _

__‘Brienne. You’re a grown woman. There are plenty less appropriate things.’_ _

__‘Not for me. For them.’ She jerks her head towards the wooden door to the inner palace._ _

__I glance at it. ‘You think Sansa and Arya don’t know what’s going on?’_ _

__‘What have you said to them?’_ _

__I shrug, keep my voice light. ‘Nothing. It’s just – well, they see how you look at me. Which is understandable.’ I steal a glance back at her. Grin._ _

__‘Gods. You’re insufferable.’_ _

__‘Just –’ I lift my hand and she flinches but remains there, and slowly I bring it to her cheek, her jaw. ‘For pity’s sake, Brienne.’_ _

__As I run my thumb carefully over the side of her mouth, I see the little something in her eyes I always knew was there. Vulnerability. Need. A need to be wanted, just a little._ _

I lean towards her – _up_ to her – and she brings her head down by a margin. Her eyes are like deepening potholes, the rock falling away in the water. Our lips meet, once, and it’s like kissing a very shy boy – or I imagine it is. Sweet, dry lips, no passion at all. I smile a little encouragement, but think it’s best to keep my mouth shut right now. 

__Well, in one way, at least. I lean forward again._ _

__***_ _

__**Arya** _ _

__You’re lying with Sansa in your bed, and she’s half-asleep, doing that twitchy thing with her fingers, her breaths getting slower. And you’re wide-awake. Part of you wants to keep everything a secret. And part of you doesn’t._ _

__‘He kissed me,’ you say, sending the words out into the darkness._ _

__Sansa’s breathing stops. ‘Hmm?’ she says, turning._ _

__‘Gendry kissed me.’_ _

There’s a short silence, and suddenly Sansa sits up, loudly, dragging half the covers with her. ‘ _Arya_.’ 

__‘What?’_ _

__She collapses back down, much closer to you. You can see the shine of her eyes. ‘Tell me everything. When? Today? Where? Did anyone see you? What was it like?’_ _

__‘Seven hells, Sansa.’_ _

__‘You can’t tell me that and expect me to go to sleep.’_ _

__You tap your fingers on your stomach, which is growling. Your appetite has grown to accommodate the ridiculous amounts of food the Sealord’s cooks keep feeding you all. You are probably getting really fat. ‘Yes, today. Round the back of the smithy’s. No one saw. It was nice.’_ _

__‘Did you kiss him back?’_ _

__‘Mmm-hmm.’_ _

__Sansa lets out a huge sigh, as if she has just finished reading an epic ballad-poem about pathetic knights and pathetic girls. ‘Your first kiss, Arya.’_ _

__‘Not my first.’_ _

__She stops moving. Turns her head. ‘What?’_ _

__‘Not my first kiss.’_ _

__‘Who – who else have you kissed?’_ _

__You chew on your lip. For ages. ‘Podrick.’_ _

__She repeats his name as if it is full of air. ‘But – when?’_ _

__‘I asked him to. Well, I sort of told him to. Just to see what it was like.’_ _

__It is almost as if you have stabbed Sansa, the way she is gasping and starting to say words but not finishing them. Like you have stabbed her with a knife-ful of kissing information. ‘It was your fault. You said he liked me.’_ _

__‘Was I right?’_ _

__‘I think so.’_ _

__‘But – who do you want to kiss now?’_ _

__You take a breath before you answer. Hold it. ‘Gendry,’ you say, and stare up at the ceiling, whilst Sansa sighs a load of fluttery sighs, shifting closer until she’s hugging your arm._ _

__You mostly mean it._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR** :
> 
> This song had to be used sometime. Somewhere, in an alternative universe (the one in my series Potential, let's say!), Sansa and Arya have got Brienne drunk and are in some trashy club singing [It's Raining Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5aZJBLAu1E). In fact, I'm going to make that happen.


	17. Ain't No Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taaa to ZoeSong as always for the li'l edit and many helpful thoughts.

**Arya**

You lie listening to your sister shuffle and mutter words under her breath that sound like _or sand or sand_ , before nudging her with your good foot.

She coughs and blinks awake.

‘You know he used to say _your_ name in his sleep?’ you say.

‘I remember. You told me.’ Before she liked him. Probably you having told her that started the whole thing off. Sansa puts the pillow over her head.

‘What did you dream of?’ you say.

She stops moving. ‘Nothing much,’ she says in a pillow-muffled voice.

You take the pillow off of her face. Her cheeks are all red and her eyes are puffy and a bit sneaky. She closes one of them.

‘Happy nameday,’ you say.

She blinks again, as if she’s just remembered, her eyebrows lifting up like birds from trees. She smiles.

***

**Jaime**

‘Happy nameday, my lady,’ Brienne says, giving her a low bow and a carved wooden bracelet. ‘This is from Podrick and myself.’

Sansa puts it on immediately and kisses them both, and both of them blush like spring beetroots. ‘My thanks,’ she says. ‘It is lovely. You are very kind.’

‘My lady,’ I say, and she looks at me. Eight and ten. She appears older, but losing half your family, withstanding torture, fighting and rather a lot of ungraceful nights in the woods will probably do that to a person. I hold out my hand. ‘It’s not much, but you should have something to mark the occasion.’

I asked the older smith, the one that _doesn’t_ go to pieces when Stark the Younger comes scrapping along with her crutch, to fashion something with a bit of the gold from my hand. I’ve still a bit of chivalry left. The smith protested that he was no jeweller, but nonetheless produced a flat, simple brooch with a wolf’s head etched on one side.

Sansa’s face grows very serious, as if a potter’s got handy with glaze. ‘It means a great deal, Ser Jaime,’ she says, and I smile.

She will make a wonderful wife for someone. Unfortunately, the way this is going, that someone is the big bastard standing a little way back, attempting to scowl his burns away. It appears that he has forgotten her nameday - perhaps there won’t be a happy ever after for these two after all. I really must have another quiet word with her at some point. Though I still feel that keeping her alive is a larger responsibility than being her septa, and having Clegane as her rather oversized shadow is still the best sort of princessguard a man could hope for.

And not just him. I glance over at Brienne. She’s looking with a kindliness at Sansa that’s not quite maternal – I’m not sure she’d know how – but nonetheless a sort of noble benevolence that displays how much she loves these girls. It’s very touching.

She catches my eye and her face changes. I try to give her a look that tells her everything I have been thinking about her for the last day and a half.

Brienne looks away. Yes, she probably understood.

***

**Sandor**

_I’m getting really fucking fat_ , says Wolfgirl, clapping her hands on her belly. The Sealord put on a feast for Sansa’s nameday, and Lannister and Tarth have just disappeared somewhere. Either Tarth’s got some disease or she’s blushing a lot more than usual, and it’s not at my curses.

 _Ay, you are_ , I say.

She kicks my shin. _You’re not supposed to say that_ , she says.

 _Stop talking rubbish, then_ , I say and she sticks her tongue out at me and makes her shoes scrape on the stone as she leaves the room with the squire.

Sansa and I are left alone in the dining chamber, staring at each other. A tiny ticking of wood somewhere. I lean over, put my hand to her ear and pull it back, let the little chain dangle. It’s worth the daft bloody move to see how pleased she looks as she sits back and stares at the necklace. It’s tiny, a dagger-blade I got some Braavosi woman with her tits half-hanging out of her dress to make. Nothing you could cut anything with. Clean your nails with, maybe. _I didn’t think you had got me anything_ , she says.

 _Wasn’t going to let those flowers your sister yanked up from the beds be your last nameday gift,_ I say. She glances over at the half-dead bunch hanging off the table and grins. That smile. Good as a blade in my gut.

 _It’s not gold_ , I say. Lannister had to outdo me with his hand. Wonder if he’d have got a gold half-face if he’d been burnt as I was.

 _It’s beautiful. Thank you_ , she says. _How did you - get it?_

How did I pay for it, she means. _Had some coin leftover after Stranger_ , I lie, having got the squire to fetch me coin from Lannister's store. 

Her face goes still, set milk. _You still miss him_ , she says, her voice soft.

I don’t move. Best not to think of him. Instead I just watch her, my face close. _It was worth it_ , I say, and her lips open the tiniest amount as she takes a breath in.

 _I dreamt about you_ , she says, and looks quickly at her skirts. Eyes flicking up again.

 _Did you now_ , I say.

She doesn’t say anything else, and she doesn’t need to.

I put my thumb up to her bottom lip, pull it down just a tiny bit, so that I can just see the glisten on the inside of it. Like some dark ruby flower after rain. She’s sitting there, letting me run my finger along it. I spread my fingers out over her cheek, slide my thumb in, feel the blunt knife-edge of her teeth, keep pushing. She opens her jaw more and takes my thumb in, the moss-bed of her tongue underneath it, the little clamp of her teeth on the knuckle. Quietly, still looking at me, she sucks it.

Fuck.

It’s as much as being inside a woman. All the feeling in me moves like an arrow, only in one direction.

 _Let me look at you_ , I say.

Her cheeks are going pink. She knows I don’t mean now, what I’m doing already. She holds onto my wrist, uses her lips to push my thumb out slowly. _They’re next door,_ she whispers.

 _Come to my chamber, then,_ I say, low, straight away. Not for stories, I think.

She takes in a quick breath.

I should take it back, but I don’t. Just look at her.

She stands up. Takes me by the hand and leads me out of the room.

***

**Arya**

‘They are going to fuck tonight. I know it,’ you say to Podrick as you walk down the corridor. And look over at him. ‘Because they are disgusting.’

Podrick doesn’t say anything.

‘What do you think of him? The Hound?’

He seems to think a moment before answering. ‘He seems quite changed, my lady. I remember him as always being drunk at the Red Keep. I was quite frightened of him.’

‘You’re still frightened of him,’ you say.

He gives you a sidelong smile, small and simple. ‘Not quite so much.’

You know he’s right. That the Hound _has_ changed. That apart from when you first got to the Sealord’s palace, he hasn’t been drunk properly once in Braavos. You remember what he was like, stumbling and cursing and falling asleep suddenly. He’d taken that whore at the inn, the one with reddish hair. And now – he does seem different. _Sansa_ had done that. But he was still the _Hound,_ and it was still disgusting.

Podrick appears to be walking you to your room, even though you’re in a palace full of guards and you know exactly where your room is.

You jab the doorframe with your crutch. ‘I don’t want to go to bed yet.’

Podrick swallows.

‘Can we go and spar?’

He looks a bit relieved. ‘Of course, my lady.’

***

**Sandor**

_Stop bloody laughing,_ I say, leaning down at her ear.

She led _me_ here – not me dragging her into a corner, the only way I’d have imagined it, long ago. The only way it might have been possible.

Her dress is bloody hard work, my hands as much help as fucking pumpkins. She has to tell me what to do, twisting, whispering, giggling a bit.

But she gets that pale face on her once I pull the dress off and she’s there in her shift. All the seven bloody gods, to see her standing there like that, even though I’ve seen her in the bath, it makes my head want to split apart. It just hangs off her, and I can see the light between the material and her skin, the shape of her. Can imagine my hand there, filling the gap.

But I know still not to dive onto her, into her. Can’t. Instead I have her sit down next to me on the bed, put my hands in her hair, down her back, feel the little stones of her spine, one by one, and she straightens as my hand gets down to the final one, shivers. Lies down carefully.

I follow in her wake. The air’s got thin and the wind’s up. Sounds like a sea outside, water right up against the window. I touch her chin, her neck, and she’s starting to go a bit stiff. Isn’t laughing any more. A look in her eyes that is taut, careful.

 _Are you frightened of me?_ I say. ‘Course she is. Fucking great burnt bastard blocking out the light from the candle. I try not to think of Blackwater, of her finding me drunk in her room.

But her eyebrows pull together. _No_ , she says. _I just – I don’t know what to do._ The words are small and even.

A heavy, coated feeling settles on me. I sit up a bit. _Come to your senses at last, have you?_ I say. It had to happen sometime. I could only get so far before she realised what a bloody big mistake she was making. Before Tarth’s words got to her. Not married and lying with a man. I should have talked her out of it myself already.

She stays lying there on her back. _No, I didn’t mean that,_ she says. _I meant_ – I look at her. _I meant that I don’t know what to do next. With you._

My heart feels like a lump of stale, flat bread, and one corner has just been broken off. Snapped clean. The way she says it. She doesn’t mean what to do with this thing between us, how to behave as she should, a lady and bloody middling noble-less shit. She means now. This. What to do next. With me.

I lean over her a little in a way that I hope to the gods seems gentle, not fear-making. _You can do what you want,_ I say. She’s just a wee girl. What am I thinking. _I’m not going to – I’ll not push you. What do you want to do?_ I say, thinking, she’ll say more kissing. Or to be held, maybe. Her hair stroked.

She blinks once, twice. Calm as a bloody septa. Grace settling on her like a dust of sugar. _I want you to take all your clothes off,_ she says.

The wind bashes itself at the window some more.

I swallow. _Do you now,_ I say.

She turns her head a little away from me, her eyes going darker, disappointed. Shamed. _You think I’m – that I’m a –_

I stop her before her mouth makes more of that word’s shape. _No,_ I say. _No, Sansa, I don’t._ Never in a thousand winters could you be that, I think. I sit up properly, put a hand to the neck of my shirt. _What the lady wants,_ I say, and try not to swallow again.

***

**Jaime**

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Brienne says in a whisper, but still a whisper that reverberates around the whole room. It’s just as well that we’re in my chamber and not hers, which is next to the girls. Though I rather fancy Sansa might be somewhere else. I’m not sure we’re doing such a wonderful job of keeping her thoroughly in our care, but she’s a grown woman now, more than ever before.

‘You’re doing just fine,’ I say. Brienne has let me kiss her some more, which I have to say is rather wonderful, now that she’s begun to open her mouth.

‘I don’t mean that,’ she says, and a minute patch of red appears on her neck. ‘I just mean – I don’t know why I’m doing it.’

‘Because you find me desperately attractive, I should imagine,’ I say, and lean in again.

She moves her cheek, swift as a sidestep in a fight. ‘No, Jaime.’

‘You don’t find me desperately attractive? Well, I must say, that’s something of a blow.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m a fighter. I fight. Protect. I don’t – let myself get carried away.’

‘You can be a fighter _and_ a lover.’ Perhaps even both at once, I think, wondering what it would be like with her. Hoping it’s not too far off in the whole scheme of things.

She’s blushed even more fiercely at the last word, and walks straight out of the door.

Well, she didn’t deny it.

***

**Sandor**

Never been naked in front of a woman before. Except for Wolfgirl, going in the rivers to wash, but she doesn’t count. Not since I was a third of this size, probably less, with a maid chucking water over me whilst I screamed blue murder. Any whore I ever threw some coins at wouldn’t have waited for me to take everything off, nor did I want to. Now I know how Sansa felt, all of a sudden, in that bathtub.

She props herself up on her elbows on the bed and bloody watches me, not scared, just – looking. As if she’s with a maester, learning something knew, something she has to remember to be tested on later. No idea what she’s thinking as I take off my shirt, my breeches, my stockings. Well, nothing for it, I think, here’s the girl that men would dream of in their last hours staring right at me with a look that’s not a smile or a frown on her face, and I take the smallclothes off and all, and come and lie back down.

She rolls over onto her side, stares some more. I try and take my eyes off the roof, watch her. Never felt more – bloody _looked_ at. How many tourneys have I fought in, hundreds of eyes on me whilst I try and slice some man’s arms off, and now I’ve lost my nerve. Some of me’s still standing strong though, sure as bloody winter – well, I can’t fucking help it – and Sansa looks down at my cock like it’s an animal she’s never seen, one that might have fucking big teeth or might settle on her lap like Tommen Baratheon’s bloody kitten.

 _Can I touch you?_ she says.

One surprise after another. A whore, she was going to say, before. No whore ever said that to me. No whore ever said anything. Ever wanted to look. _Ay, you can touch me,_ I say.

Makes me feel more aware of my burns, somehow, like this. How they tear into the skin of my neck, twist like a nest of baby snakes. She touches those first, follows their trail down to my collarbone, and there’s a lump in my throat that’s shame, and fear. I force it down.

Her fingers are on my chest, and at least I know the rest of me’s in order, just about. I might not have been naked around women but I’ve seen enough men to know I’m built better than most of them. But I feel daft next to her, who’s like a strip of willow, though she’s tall, and her toes are on my ankle. And I’m forgetting that I’m covered in wounds, new and old, and it’s those she stares at now and follows with her fingers. I could tell her story of each one and be here ‘til morning. The burn on my neck that Arya gave me, the tight blistered skin on my arm from the Brotherhood, a spear-scratch from a young knight who almost bested me ‘til I put my sword through his helm. The wound from Gregor.

Her hand’s skating up at the base of my throat, on my side, but her eyes keep sliding down to my cock, which is straining like a dog on a fucking leash. Swear I can see her nipple through her shift. She touches my thigh and I flinch. _You want to know how to torture a man,_ I say. _This is it._

She takes her hand off me, and light as it was, I feel the loss. _Should I stop_? she says, confused.

I know what I should say. That we can’t do this. That it is one of the few things she has, besides a handful of fighters an army would piss their pants laughing at. It’s screaming at me – _in_ me. We can’t.

 _No,_ I say.

Her hand rests on the side of my sword-wound. _I’m sorry about your brother_ , she says, words as polished as big heavy stones, and the air changes again. I go still.

How does she know to say that. To know that as much as I hated him, as much as he was the black dog-shadow at my back, that I feel this – _loss_ , of something. Not of him, but of my blood, somehow. Of purpose, too. _Never thought I’d feel like_ – I say, and each word is an effort. _No one_.

She comes up on her elbow, and her hair slides down in front of her face a bit, onto my chest. _You’re not no one to me,_ she says, quiet.

That makes me feel like fucking weeping right there and then. _Why?_ I say.

 _Because you were kind,_ she says. _To me,_ _and to Arya._ She sits up. _You’re a thousand times better than he was. More._ She looks fiercer than I’ve ever seen her, and for a moment I can see her with a sword in her hand.

 _I can’t –_ I say, and don’t even know what was coming next. _I don’t deserve you,_ I say.

 _Yes you do,_ she says, and that’s enough.

I twist, turn her onto her back, put my hand on her stomach. _Tell me to stop,_ I say, and I hope she will, and I hope she never does.

***

**Arya**

‘One day I am totally going to get you,’ you say as you walk back from the yard.

‘I think you already did,’ Podrick says, holding his arm where you have whacked him. It was a bit too dark to see him properly. At least that was your excuse. ‘You’re a rather better water dancer than I, my lady.’

‘You’re not bad,’ you say. ‘You’re getting better.’ You wonder if Gendry would want to train a little. He says he has his own sword, one that Finnbar made for him.

‘You’re very kind.’ He’s very good at smoothing out his voice so that you can’t tell what he is thinking – better than everyone at that, apart from Sansa sometimes, maybe.

You limp down the hallway. ‘Ow. Fuck.’ You twisted your leg a bit when you turned too fast. You wish your bloody bad leg was back to normal. It’s taking so long.

‘Did I hurt you, my lady?’

‘No.’ Podrick couldn’t hurt anyone, you think. No one he liked anyway. You reach your door again. ‘Um. Goodnight, then.’

He looks at the ground, and back at you. His eyebrows make you think of those woolly caterpillars that crawl around on leaves. You wish that you had never ever asked him to kiss you. ‘Goodnight.’ He turns, quite slowly, and turns back. ‘My lady?’

‘What?’

‘You’re not fat, my lady.’

‘Oh.’ You work very hard not to blush. ‘Thanks.’

He nods, once, a small one, with an even smaller smile, and walks away.

***

**Sandor**

The warmth of her. Even through her shift she’s as hot as an oven, and I bring the material up so as I can hold her side. She’s a stone baked in the sun. Gods. I’m leaning into her, but my hips brought a bit away, my cock not touching her. I feel like if it does I’ll set alight.

Not very carefully, I put my hand higher, on her breast. On the other. I can’t look at her – it’s too much to, though I feel her eyes on my face. Hold her hip, feel the point of the bone under the heel of my palm. Want to die.

She sits up, helps me take off her shift, and I watch the bones in her shoulder blades move, think of swan wings. The light makes her half-glow, half-shadow. She lies down again and I slide up next to her, turn her onto her side to look at her back, which is long for a girl’s. My heart’s fucking shouting – it’s a small wonder she can’t hear it. I touch her in the little curve at the bottom of her back, move my fingers down, underneath her smallclothes.

She doesn’t say stop.

I take them off. Grasp her arse and feel like I’ve got all of her in my hand. There are just little tiny breaths from her, and she doesn’t say a word.

I move my fingers enough that I feel that’s she’s wet, warm. Fuck. That’s for me _._ My blood starts to take over from my mind. I bring myself right up to her, feel her back against my chest, wrap my arm around her waist, press my cock against her. Turn her over onto her back.

She still doesn’t say stop.

Gods, it’s too fucking much. I get hold of my cock, find her, and it’s a bit of work as I try and get inside her, and I lick my hand and put it on her and on me, and then she moves a little and – there. I push and I’m in her.

She still says nothing. I move and sweet fucking seven fucking hells she’s got enough of me inside her for it to near split my head open. And I’m terrified and wonder if she is too, but I keep moving. Bring my hand up between her breasts, for a moment have my hand around her neck, find her face.

She’s staring at me. I can’t look back. Too frightened to see what she is thinking. I come out, turn her round again so that her back is to me. Left her leg high and come in from behind her. Put an arm underneath her, round her stomach. Hold her arse.

She grabs my hand that’s underneath her and puts my thumb between her teeth. It’s not like before, downstairs, her sucking on it like it’s a sugared lemon. She _bites_ , hard, and I remember me giving Wolfgirl my hand to bite on when I pulled the axe out of her leg, and I try not to think about that. And it hurts, and I know that Sansa’s doing it not because she’s got her blood up, or not just that, but because I’m hurting her, and I think, _bite harder, then_ , and I keep moving, all dark feeling beginning to burn in my crotch, and pull out just in time.

I listen to her breathing. To me breathing. To the rain.

 _Sansa_ , I say, my thumb throbbing.

I hear her swallow. Slowly, she turns around, shifts a little away to keep out of the mess I’ve made, and I’m dreading seeing her face.

 _You alright_ , I say. Course she’s not. I’ve ruined her.

Her teeth jut together, a little stammer-sound. She nods. The smallest bit of light in her eyes.

***

**Arya**

You wake up as Sansa gets into bed behind you. You don’t turn round.

You know she’s staring at the roof. You can hear her blinking. She smells different. You think you know what it might be, but you try not to think about it.

You try to sleep.

***

**Sandor**

She didn’t stop long afterwards. Got out quietly, a half-ghost, putting her shift back on, whispered good night. I should have told her to stay, but instead I lie looking at the little blot of blood on the bed. 

And there’s an angry shout. Low, but a woman’s. And guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR** :
> 
> The lyrics in this one were too good. Bill Withers is singing [Ain't No Sunshine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIdIqbv7SPo) round and round in Sandor's head just before the cliffhanger, I will wager. He likes a bit of classic R&B alongside his midcentury jazz and Tom Waits.


	18. Set Fire To The Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HERE I AM! Sorry for the slowcoach updates but just be glad this isn't Ragnar in Westeros, har har har. 
> 
> If you need reminding, which you probably do, because it's been ages, there was just some quite sensual but ultimately awkward and ambiguous SanSan first time sex, and then a woman's cry was heard somewhere about the palace. 
> 
> COMMENCE!
> 
> (PS Ta as always to ZoeSong's editing awesomeness.)

**Jaime**

I hear a cry that can only be Brienne’s and am out of my room and clattering up the stairs and to the second balcony before I can barely draw breath.

It’s dark, and Brienne’s tussling with two men. A yelp from one of them as she shoulders him. He bounces off the wall before landing on his knee, and swiftly I’m there and pulling the other guard away from her, ready to slice his arm off.

‘Wait, Jaime.’ Brienne says, half-gasping. ‘They’re guards.’

‘What?’ 

The guard I’m holding wrestles from my grasp and dashes away. 

‘Guards?’ I say. ‘What the hell were they doing attacking you?’

The guard on his knees is getting up, gabbling in Braavosi. It’s true that they’re in the palace armour, though that could be a disguise.

I step up to him, kick his spear away, hold my sword to his throat. ‘Were they – trying to dishonour you?’

‘No – no, my lord,’ says the guard, in an approximation of Westerosi. ‘Mistake. Wrong. I wrong.’

‘I was walking, that was all,’ says Brienne, her chest heaving. ‘These idiots thought I was an attacker of some kind, though quite how I would have swum here and scaled the walls is another question.’ She looks at her arm. ‘Godsdammit.’

‘Are you hurt?’ I feel a salt-wave of fury and grab the young guard by the hair.

‘Leave him, Jaime.’ She’s holding her arm and I grab a torch and hold it. Her sleeve’s torn, the skin weeping with blood.

‘My lady?’ Podrick is there, his sword drawn, a little out of breath.

‘Well, you’d all have been too late if they were any good,’ Brienne says, and Podrick lowers his weapon.

Clegane’s in the hallway, breathing heavily, holding the other guard by the throat as if he’s a hen for the pot. ‘Kill him?’ he says. He’s barely dressed.

I shake my head. ‘False alarm,’ I say. 

Clegane almost looks disappointed, as if he’d like nothing better than to crush the young man in his grasp. He releases the man, who staggers away, gasping, mild curses under his breath.

‘Shouldn’t have run into me, then,’ Clegane says to him.

The First Sword, a tall, damnably dashing man, is walking up behind him. ‘What is the trouble?’ he says, rather coolly.

‘No trouble, as it turns out,’ I say. ‘Apart from your man being more jumpy than a bloody rabbit and trying to stab the Sealord’s honoured guests.’

The First Sword looks impassively at the man who stands next to me. ‘He is newly in our employ. I offer my apologies. He will be reprimanded. Fully.’ The young guard hangs his head as he walks past Clegane and the First Sword, with quiet, alarmed words in Braavosi. 

‘Very well,’ I say, nodding. The First Sword gives a low bow and we follow them back inside, Brienne holding her forearm up in the air.

‘What’s happening?’ Sansa is there, hugging a cloak around herself, and Arya just behind her, sleepy and mouse-like, dragging a blanket. 

Clegane’s face is intriguing, looking at Sansa as if trying to tell her his life story in a single peculiar glower. She glances up at him, blushing rather profusely. 

‘Was there a fight?’ says Arya, rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand and yawning. Her hair is pointing in several directions. She wouldn’t be the most reliable fighting companion in the middle of the night by the looks of things.

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ I say, which is not entirely true. ‘Go to sleep, my ladies. All is well.’

There’s another strange set of glances exchanged between Sansa and Clegane before the girls turn back towards their room.

***

**Arya**

_Did you do it with him_? you think and don’t say to Sansa as both of you get back into bed. You were very tired, and now you are wide awake, because there was fighting and you missed it.

Since you’ve been in the palace, your sister has started to tell you stories, the ones Old Nan used to tell, and you don’t care that you’re far too old to hear them now. Or she sings. It makes both of you feel sad, sadder than ever, but it helps, too. 

Or she lets you talk about all the people you’ll kill when you get to Westeros, and how you’ll do it. Who will help you with each one. The Hound would hold Walder Frey whilst you sliced him from neck to cock. Jaime would string Roose Bolton to one of his crosses whilst you cut little holes in him and put leeches in there. Brienne would help you with Cersei, because Jaime definitely wouldn’t, and Brienne would probably feel better with Jaime’s sister out of the way because then she could fuck him and not think of sisters so much. All of that makes you both sad and happy, too.

Right now, though, Sansa is lying on her back, her hands on her belly, like she’s carved on top of a grave. They were looking at each other really strangely out there and it wasn’t just because his shirt was on back to front. 

‘Are you alright?’ you say. 

Maybe he hurt her. If so, you will march over there and stab him with the dagger that Gendry made for you, so deep that only the wolf on the end of the hilt will be sticking out. 

She stares at the ceiling for a bit longer. ‘I’m alright,’ she says as if she’s only just decided, and turns to you. She looks older. ‘I’m fine, Arya.’ She smiles.

***

**Jaime**

‘Let me look at it.’

In her chamber, Brienne is washing the wounded arm, which is bleeding profusely, Podrick sitting very close and looking concerned. A long cut. ‘I’ll be alright.’

‘It’s still bleeding,’ I say, rather uselessly, and step closer with another cloth.

She pushes me away with her other elbow. ‘I’m fine, Jaime.’ But she glances back up at me, and her face softens. ‘Really. Thank you. Podrick can help me.’

I don’t suppose anyone rescues her very often. I did once before, with the bear, but I rather prefer this look she’s giving me now, which is one she seems to be practising and hasn’t quite got yet.

I pace the room, trying not to hit things. I haven’t seen her hurt for a long time – the last time I did, I felt rather differently about her. ‘What were you doing? Out there?’

‘Thinking. Clearing my head.’ She glares at me.

Her glares do nothing to me now – or not the way she would like. I simply gaze back, thinking of how really not that long ago I had my hand on her neck and in her hair, which was softer than I’d imagined. I allow the smallest smile to drift onto my face.

She swallows and looks back down at her arm. There’s one fight that she is not going to win.

***

**Sandor**

The Sealord’s got a right face on him in the morning as he says his sorrys to Tarth, who has her arm bandaged up. 

_My guards have been instructed to be more diligent_ , he says, his hands folded behind his back, great fucking belly sticking out like a sack of mud. _There has been word of more foreigners in the city. But these two were young and should not have been posted together. I can only offer my apologies again._

More foreigners. More people looking to kill these two, I think, looking at Sansa and at Arya, who’s chewing on bread and not listening much. She’s got a bloody appetite on her. 

Lannister says his smooth words that make all us friends again and the Sealord gives one of his slow bows and buggers off.

I catch Sansa’s hand before she leaves the room. _You left marks_ , I say, quiet, and show her my thumb, the two little dents either side where she bit me. Not quite drawing blood. Unlike me.

She looks at my thumb, her eyes wide, looks at me. _I’m sorry_ , she says.

I shake my head. _Didn’t mean that_ , I say. _You – you alright_? Gods. ‘Course she’s not. I’ve fucking ruined her.

She nods, and there’s a whisper of a smile.

 _I didn’t – did you want to_? I say. All night, before and after the disturbance, I’d thought over it, that she’d been too frightened, even though I’d told her to stop me, if she’d wanted to. I should have asked more. Didn’t do it right. 

She gazes at me. The blue of her eyes is the blue of the little flowers in Middlelands meadows. _Yes_ , she says.

 _You don’t regret it_? I say. I regret it, in the cold light of another wet day. And I don’t regret it, and I want to do it again right now and for every day until I draw my last bloody breath. _I’m – I’m new to this_ , I say, though it pains me to, and her eyebrows tilt in towards each other. 

_I thought_ – she says.

 _No_ , I say, because I don't mean that, and I don’t know how to say more. _New to – this is_ – words have floated all the way to the other side of Essos. _For fuck’s sake_ , I say, wishing I could strangle myself. 

She watches me, calm summer-sky eyes, the light coming slowly. She’s Maiden and Mother and all things in between. There’s the smallest smile. 

***

**Arya**

Jaime is not letting you go out into the city with the reports of more foreigners about, so now the palace is like a really, really nice prison. Sansa’s happy enough sewing wolves to things and dogs to other things and Brienne’s looking after her arm and looking a bit fed up.

You get a message to Gendry and he comes here, looking awkward with a guard on each side of him.

‘Welcome to my humble home,’ you say, leaning on your crutch. ‘By which I mean massive palace.’ You give him a grin.

He shakes his head, looking upwards, trying not to seem too astonished. ‘Very nice,’ he says. 

You show him round. The feast-hall, all the statues of the Sealords, the kitchens until the nicer cook with the yellow teeth shoos you away, and the training-yard. You watch some water dancers training for a while, and you think about how he kissed you.

Gendry looks grubbier amongst the white and green marble, and you think again how it’s daft to be hiding who he is. 

‘You could be living here, too,’ you say, as you walk in the cloisters out of the rain. ‘Or somewhere like this.’

‘Is that how it works?’ he says, flashing you a look. ‘I say I’m the old king’s bastard son, and someone gives me a palace?’

‘Ha ha,’ you say, stopping. ‘I just mean – you don’t have to be a blacksmith.’ You know how hard it would be really. After all, you and Sansa are Starks and you’re in hiding, sort of. He’d have to fight, a lot.

‘Maybe I like being a blacksmith,’ he says, and puts his hands on your waist. A rock-sized lump is suddenly in your throat. ‘You said you liked them, anyway.’

‘I do,’ you say, sounding completely pathetic, and then you’re kissing him.

You are in the shadows against a wall and have your arms round his neck, nails at the bottom of his hairline. You can feel all of his chest against you, and he is damp from the rain and you stick together a bit.

He puts his tongue in your mouth and you pull away quickly and wipe your mouth.

He flushes. ‘Sorry.’ 

You screw your nose up at him. ‘I didn’t know you were going to do that, that’s all.’

‘You mean if I tell you beforehand, you don’t mind?’ He gives you a careful smile.

You shrug. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ You wipe the rain out of your face. ‘Yes.’

***

**Sandor**

Tarth’s gloomy. Gloomier than usual. 

_You’ll stick like that, you know_ , I say. _Oh no, wait, you already have_.

Her look is wet stone.

I nod down at her arm, strapped to her flat bloody chest. _How’s that_?

 _It’s fine_ , she says, hardly moving her mouth. 

_Best have your steel with you next time_ , I say. 

_I know that perfectly well_ , she says, looking past my shoulder.

I just raise my eyebrows, shake my head. Ungrateful sow.

She’s watching me now. _Just because you helped a little with those guards doesn’t mean I’ll go any easier on you with regards to Lady Sansa_ , she says.

 _Bit late for that_ , I say, not quite under my breath.

Her eyes flick up, dead quick. _Meaning_?

I just give her dried-mud eyes back. _Meaning none of your fucking concern_ , I say.

 _For the gods’ sakes_ , she says, looking like she's working her fat arse off not to lunge at me. _How dare you_.

 _How dare I what_? I say.

 _Besmirch her honour_ , she says, practically hissing. Going red.

 _Fancy word for a plain bitch like you_ , I say, though inside, I know she’s right. _Anyway, aren’t you getting your own honour besmirched_? I can’t help putting a sneer into that last word.

 _In another world, I’d have killed you by now_ , she says.

 _In another world, I’d have killed you_ , I say.

***

**Arya**

You’re walking Gendry back out of the palace, whispering about the guards who are in front of you. ‘He has a really high voice like a girl’s, and he –’ nodding to the other one ‘– tried to stab Brienne, which is obviously a really bad idea, because Jaime would like to basically kill him a thousand times over now.’

Gendry grins at you. ‘Would you do that for me?’

‘’Course,’ you say, grinning back.

Podrick comes out of the kitchens holding a bowl of something, and looks startled to see you both.

‘Oh, hello,’ you say. 

‘My lady. Ser,’ he says to Gendry, which is really very nice seeing as he does not know that he’s a ser, or a lord, or whatever Gendry is really.

Gendry gives him a nod. Puts his hands behind his back and looks at you, with something underneath his look that says _kissing_ , really loudly.

There’s a strange silence. You go red. You can’t help it. Let out a tiny laugh.

Podrick looks at his bowl, nods at you both again. ‘My lady. Ser.’ He walks down the hallway away from you.

Gendry watches him go. ‘Does he ever say anything else?’

That stops you smiling. It seems mean. ‘Yes. He says loads. He’s just, I don’t know, a really good squire.’ So good that he did your bidding. Kissed you. 

You don’t say anything else until you get to the great wooden doors. From here you can hear the noise of the city, distant shouts and horses. ‘Goodbye, then,’ you say. 

Gendry’s got a guard either side of him again, but he doesn’t look quite so nervous now. His look is calm and his eyes are bluer than this stupid pissing Braavosi sky will ever be.

‘I hope to see you soon,’ he says. 

You nod. 

You try not to use your crutch as you go back over the bridge and into the second part of the palace. You glare at your ankle, which has got weak, and tell it to get fucking better. And walk straight into the Hound. 

‘Where the hells have you been?’ he says, holding onto your elbow as you wobble like an idiot.

‘Where do you think?’ you say, shaking him off.

The Hound narrows his eyes until they are tiny rowboats and folds his arms. ‘You shouldn’t have him in your company so much,’ he says. He doesn’t even say his name.

‘You can’t be serious,’ you say, folding your arms too, as best you can with a crutch under one of them.

He leans down. ‘Do I look like I’m not?’

You stare at his horrible scars. His eyes have gone all narrow. ‘What, I can’t be friends with Gendry –’ 

His look is haughty, incredulous. ‘Friends? Is that what it –’

Friends who kiss. He’d kissed you, again, and you’d kissed him back, for quite a long time. With tongues. It had been excellent. But you don’t have to tell him that bit. ‘ _Friends_ with Gendry when you’re fucking my sister?’ 

He looks alarmed, for just a moment, before he regains his composure. ‘You’ve a filthy mouth.’

You snort. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’ 

He gives a frown that turns into a grin. 

‘For fuck’s sake,’ you say. ‘Wankarse. Cuntbitch. Shitstain. Strangerfucker. I got them all from you. It’s how I win the stones curses game all the time.’

‘Alright, you’ve made your point.’

He didn’t say no. So they definitely did it. So he cannot say anything to you.

***

**Jaime**

I catch Clegane hovering outside the girls’ room. He sees me, changes his stance about ten times, then leans against the wall and folds his arms, as if he’s just ended up there by chance.

‘You’re not fooling anyone,’ I say.

He looks ashamed for about half a second. ‘Fuck you,’ he says.

As refined a response as ever. I take a step closer. ‘For gods’ sakes,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘It’s as plain as anything to every single one of us what is going on.’

He stiffens, and looks as if he’s getting ready to slice me in half.

I use my most reasonable voice. ‘What you’re doing is madness.’

‘You can fucking talk, Lannister. You can call me a thousand bloody names, but you can’t call me a sister-fucker.’

I let that slide off me. I’ve heard it too many times. And, after all, it is true. ‘I realise that she’s a grown woman now,’ I say. ‘And try as I might to talk some sense into her, it seems your significant charm and wit have won her over.’

He doesn’t say anything, looking over my head, shaking his own.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Just – take care. Of her.’ 

Even the reference to Sansa is enough to make the dark metal in his eyes soften, just a little. His shoulders lower. He nods, and I turn to go.

‘You not fucking her yet?’

I stop, and take a heroically patient breath. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard.’

‘Have you ever uttered a sentence without a curse in there?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ His grin is the colour of a peat bog. 

***

**Sandor**

Wolfgirl opens the door, makes a sound like a rabid squirrel. 

_She there_? I say, quiet.

She pulls a face like a rabid squirrel and all. _No_ , she says. _She’s off fucking the First Sword of Braavos_.

Even though I know it's a dig, I'll have to work hard not to brain that tall swishy fucker next time he comes past. _Ha fucking ha_ , I say, glaring at her, and she gives a great heaving sigh and shuts the door in my face. I hear something like _your great big stinking whore is here_ and Sansa murmuring something back. Gods. 

Perhaps I am. Her whore. I’d laugh at that, if this wasn’t all such a fucking mess. Take care of her, says Lannister. What does he think I’m going to do? I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I’m not letting it slip from me. Not yet. The most beautiful fucking thing to ever grace this earth, to ever breathe this air – the _air_ is fucking lucky – 

The door opens and she’s there, sliding out, standing against the wall, her hands behind her back against it. Her hair is damp at the ends, at her forehead. She’s been bathing. 

I should say about a thousand things right now. I hate that I hurt you. I’ve ruined you and I’m sorry. I never want to let you go anywhere. I lost myself because I’m a horrible big useless shit who has only been with whores. You should be rid of me. I want you every day for the rest of my stupid life. 

She’s staring up at me, and then she pushes herself off the wall and walks down the hallway, and she looks over her shoulder at me.

I follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME-TIME RADIO HOUR  
>  Adele's [Set Fire to The Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlsBObg-1BQ), which is mostly SanSan, I guess. Bit ANGSTY. Quite a lot of mentions of BURNING. I can imagine Sansa singing this to the heavy rain outside, with a perfect Adele-ish accent.
> 
> ***
> 
> Holidayze for me tomorrow so back in a bit :)


	19. The Rain Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to ZoeSong for her editing, as ever.

**Arya**

You are munching a really bitter apple and are about to march into the feast room to complain about it when you hear voices, and the words _proper_ and _respectable_.

You manage to halt just in time and flatten your back against the door, chewing very quietly. Sansa and Brienne are talking in there, their voices very low, as if they do not want anyone else to hear.

‘My lady, it’s simply not proper to even be speaking of this here –’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything that would embarrass you. I just know that he admires you greatly.’

‘We are friends, that is all.’ 

Brilliant. They are talking about Jaime.

Brienne is still talking, though in a way that seems like she is just trying to fill the air with as many words as possible. ‘We – spent a lot of time together on the road when he was my prisoner and he tends to think that that means he can act in whatever way he chooses towards me and take all manner of liberties and –’

‘Don’t you like him, Lady Brienne?’

There is a pause and you have to stop chewing in case they hear you. 

Brienne sounds like she is beginning to say a word, and then another, yet none come out. ‘It is very difficult to say, my lady.’

The same bit of apple is turning to mush in your mouth.

‘I know. It’s hard to tell. To know you what you are feeling.’

‘My lady, you must know that I would never let myself be distracted by anything that would cause my protection of you, and of Lady Arya, to falter –’

‘But you _do_ like him.’

‘I –’

‘He is very handsome. Everyone always thought so at King’s Landing.’

‘I really couldn’t –’

‘But he’s so much better than that now. He’s a different person from the one who was – there.’ Sansa leaves a gap and you imagine both of them thinking about Jaime fucking his sister, which is still the most gut-churningly repellent thing you have ever heard in your entire life. 

‘And – it’s nice.’

There’s a silence. 

‘My lady?’ says Brienne.

Sansa speaks in a way that means you know she has a little smile on her face. ‘To be – with a man. It’s really very nice.’ She has been later and later to bed for the last three nights and it's completely impossible not to know what she's talking about.

There’s a very loud noise, like the palace is falling down, but which is just Brienne getting up, and she says ‘I must go and see how Podrick is doing, my lady,’ and then she is there in the hallway, and basically walks right into you. 

‘Hello, Brienne!’ you say, and apple falls out of your mouth.

She says your name and does a funny little bow and marches off. You slide your shoulder round the door and Sansa looks up. ‘Were you listening?’ she says.

You nod and collapse to the floor, holding your sides. 

***

**Jaime**

‘My lord.’ It’s evening and Podrick is there, looking even more humble than usual. He’s been quite mopey of late, though I can’t quite put my finger on why. Brienne’s scolding him no more than ever.

‘What is it?’

He’s standing there with his hands behind his back, looking as if he needs to divulge a great secret.

‘Podrick,’ I say impatiently, swivelling round to him properly.

He steps forward, bringing one hand from behind his back. Looking bloody guilty. He puts it in my hand.

Heavy, and jingling. Coin. I tug open to strings. Rather a lot of coin. I look up at him and he’s looking blank-faced and inordinately blameworthy at once. ‘Podrick. What’s this?’

‘For – our lodgings, my lord,’ he says, quite guilelessly. ‘I know you’ve got money from your hand, but I thought we’d need more. To keep us wherever we are.’

I stare at it. ‘Where did you get this?’ 

‘That’s none of your concern, my lord.’

‘You didn’t steal this?’ He’s a clever lad, but I can’t see him being quick-fingered enough, or indeed ever having the nerve to.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then where did you get it?’ I say, quite patiently.

‘I earnt it, my lord,’ he says, folding his hands in front of him. 

‘Doing what?’

Podrick swallows. ‘It’s not important, my lord. But you can use it for us all, can’t you?’

‘I’m sure I can,’ I say, and he bows and disappears very quickly indeed. 

I pour it out into my lap and watch it glint in the candlelight as Brienne comes in. She stands over me and looks at it.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Your loyal squire,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘He’s a bit of a mystery, you know. I believe I may have underestimated him.’

‘He’s about as much of a mystery as a loaf of stale bread,’ she says, though she furrows her eyebrows at the coin.

‘Hmm,’ I say, before looking up at her, she who gleams less dully than the coin in my lap. I begin to tip it into the small sack, though it’s rather awkwardly done with one flesh-made hand and one cheap iron one. 

Brienne comes over, kneels, and helps, ever practical. I watch her corral the gold into a curved palm. The luxury of a second hand that does as it’s bid. 

‘Brienne,’ I say, rather quietly. 

‘Yes,’ she says, very matter-of-factly, taking a coin off my thigh and absolutely not making eye contact. 

‘Come to bed,’ I say.

The last coin makes a tiny, hard sound as it rattles into the bag. Brienne doesn’t rise, but stays there, kneeling by my legs, suddenly as stiff as a four hundred year old tree.

I put my hand up to her neck and gently put my fingers into the edges of her hair. She gives a rather violent shiver but doesn’t pull away, letting me trace a sure line from behind her ear to her jaw. ‘I need you.’ I don’t terribly much care how desperate I probably sound. 

‘I don’t need anyone,’ she says, through her teeth. 

‘Want, then.’ She glares at the floor as if it’s a battle-plan there that she needs to commit to memory. ‘Tell me that you don’t want me and I’ll leave you be. I give you my word.’

She glances up at me, almost guiltily. 

My voice is slow and warm without having to pretend it so. ‘You know you can trust me.’

She looks faintly like she might cry. Or start a fight. But she does neither. Instead, she looks at her feet one more time, and when she raises her head, she’s resolute, and trying very hard to disguise her nerves. 

I smile. 

***

**Arya**

‘Where did you go to today?’

Night-time training is fun. It’s dark and you can hardly see anything in the training yard. Podrick’s just a lumpen shadow in front of you, not quite moving quickly enough. You think of Syrio, his cat-moves through the air. A cat can dance in the dark.

‘Nowhere, my lady,’ says Podrick.

‘Liar,’ you say.

He doesn’t say anything. 

‘I’m a water-cat,’ you say, and wheel round at him. 

‘I’m sure you are, my lady.’ The lumpen shadow moves a bit, just in time.

You twist again, lunge and hit him with the hilt of your sword, quite a lot harder than you had meant to.

He stumbles. ‘Ow.’

‘Shit. Fuck. Sorry.’ 

He is standing there holding his face, his sword low.

‘Are you alright?’ you say.

There’s a pause. ‘Yes, my lady.’ He would probably say that if you chopped off a bit of his leg.

‘You’re not. Let me see.’ You go closer, but the torchlight from the balconies above you doesn’t show much. Except that the skin around his eyebrow is darker. ‘You’re bleeding.’

He holds his hand away and looks at it. ‘Never mind.’ He reels slightly. 

‘Don’t be an idiot. Come on.’

***

**Jaime**

She’s as unyielding as a statue. She lets me remove her jerkin, belts, but stands stiffly, looking right over my head, as if it’s an ordeal she must endure. The slightest occasional tremble.

Cersei didn’t stand for my slowness after I returned, impaired by the damned hand. Impatience would always win, and she’d slap my hand away and rip her own dress off, if she bothered to take it off at all. She was happy just to have my cock out of its smallclothes, rather than anything more intimate. And that suited me fine. Most of the time, anyway.

I’ve looked at Brienne for so long that even though I’ve seen her once before, it seems almost unimaginable that there’s a woman’s body under the armour and leather, but little by little, I unwrap her. Even I can’t help a slight hesitation as I hold the hem of her shirt, though I can feel the heat of her without even touching the skin.

She looks down at me, that mixture of guardedness and fragility. 

‘You might have to assist me a little,’ I say, rather quietly.

She blinks and the practical Brienne returns in an instant. She removes her shirt and it floats off over her head like a great white sail. Underneath, she’s bandaged – her breasts bound up until they’re almost flat.

‘Easier to fight,’ she says.

I have a sudden vision of her roaring her head off on some misty moor, her torso naked but for the bindings, covered in blood, swinging her sword about. 

‘May I?’ I say.

She turns very slowly, and I find the end of the bandage, and begin to unwind, moving round her as if she’s a ribbon-pole. She _is_ a bloody ribbon-pole. 

And then I take a step back, and drink her in in a way I couldn’t in that bathhouse, when I was losing my mind and the will to live.

The twilight filters in, catching her in its glow, or perhaps it’s the other way round. She’s an impressive mixture of muscle and taut skin. Her breasts are rather marvellous – there’s more there than I remembered, and she’s broad, and beautiful, and Brienne.

I smile at her. She doesn’t smile back, instead eyeing me as if I’m a slavering dog – or that bear – rather than a knight who is still fully dressed. She glances at my metal hand.

When Cersei saw my arm in that sling, her face fell and hardened at the same time, like snow turning to ice before it hit the ground. She had the hand made for me, and the first thing I thought when I saw it was _you want to hide it_. Just like she always hid everything, truths, her real feelings, behind a sheet of metal.

Brienne doesn’t care about the arm. Not one bit. She removes my hand and places it carefully, rather respectfully, on the table, and frankly, I feel more naked with the stump exposed than the rest of me.

I undress. I’ve got it down to a fine art, the one-handed disrobing. She’s looking at me sidelong, sitting on the side of the bed now, her hands placed in her lap, though I can’t say it covers much. 

‘You can look, you know,’ I say, and stand in front of her, so that she can’t avoid me. 

Her eyes travel slowly, and I fancy that partly she’s looking at me as she’d assess a landscape we have to travel through, scanning it for dangers. Only one danger to look at, staring her right in the face, making those sapphires darken. I think of about a thousand quips about swords and sheaths and say none of them.

I find myself suddenly rather nervous. I’ve only known one woman. Perhaps she wasn’t the best person to school myself on. Perhaps there’s more to it than - 

‘Would you like to lie down?’ I say.

***

**Arya**

‘It’s alright, my lady, I can see to it,’ Podrick says, dripping blood everywhere.

‘I bashed you in so I will make it better,’ you say, outside your chamber door. ‘Sansa,’ you say loudly, sticking your head round the door first to check that she is not getting changed into her night things. She’s not there. Probably still letting the Hound slobber all over her. And worse. There’s a small thud in your stomach that you try to ignore. 

‘Don’t mind the mess,’ you say, stepping over all of your things. You’re not very good at tidying up, but the thrill of having so much space means that you fill it. Even Sansa’s become really messy. She throws things everywhere and gives an impish smile afterwards.

Podrick’s standing in the middle of the room, carefully avoiding yours and Sansa’s shifts, looking pretty red. Not just the blood. 

‘Um. Sit there,’ you say.

He sits.

You find a mostly-clean cloth next to the washing sink and soak it. Hold it to his eyebrow. 

Neither of you speak. You can’t really think of anything to say. You try to pull a face at him but he’s looking straight ahead and doesn’t see. The blood seeps through the cloth. 

‘It’s quite bad,’ you say. ‘I’ll get wine. Stay there.’

The Hound will have wine, you think, and listen at the door. It’s quiet. But not completely. She’s definitely in there. You don’t stick around to listen. Brienne won’t have any. You stop outside Jaime’s door and hear voices in there too. Seven hells. Podrick’s room, then. 

His room is very neat. Everything is folded. There’s a book on the wonky table next to his pillow, and you limp over to have a quick look. A Thousand-Year History Of The Houses of Westeros. You flip open the cover. ‘To my most loyal squire. Tyrion Lannister.’ There’s a little pang in your ribs. 

A small flagon of wine, pretty full, is next to the book. You carefully close the book again.

Podrick is exactly where you have left him. He does not look as if he has moved one bit. You tip the wine up onto the cloth and hold it to his eyebrow again. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘A little, my lady.’

‘I’m really sorry.’

‘That’s alright, my lady.’ The bleeding at his eyebrow has stopped. There’s a trickle of blood running straight down the centre of his cheek. You wipe it, carefully. 

He saw you kissing Gendry. You shouldn’t care. ‘No. About – about everything.’

He knows exactly what you mean. Of course he does, because he can always see what is happening between people. He is quiet, and he watches, and he does not judge. ‘Nothing to be sorry about, my lady.’

‘You don’t mind? That I have a –’ you clamp your mouth shut. A what? 

‘It’s none of my concern, my lady.’ He is looking steadfastly at the floor.

Maybe he doesn’t care, after all. But there is something in his face that seems to be working hard to keep the plain-looking Podrick in front of something else.

‘Yes, but –’ You didn’t think you’d be kissing someone else so _soon_ , you think.

‘It’s fine, my lady. Really. I’m – I’m just your squire.’

And he thinks Gendry’s just a blacksmith, you think, and realise how amazingly nice he is, about everyone. ‘No you’re not, Podrick. You’re not my squire. You’ve said before. You’re Brienne’s squire. You’re – my friend.’

He looks sort of pleased, and sort of sad. ‘It is an honour to be called your friend, my lady.’

You smile at him, and feel totally shit.

***

**Sandor**

It’s definitely been better, since that first time. It’s quiet, and strange, but slowly I find how she fits me. How I fit her.

 _I want to face you_ , she says, quietly, craning round. 

I swallow and come out of her, and she rolls closer to me, onto her back, and moves her legs apart. I move inbetween her, thinking I’ll fucking hurt her more, being on top like this. I’ll damn near crush her to death. But she props up on her elbows and watches as I find her, push into her again, and then locks eyes with me, the eyes of an arrowman, as I lean down.

Face to face. It’s more naked than ever. I want her not to look at me, not when we’re doing this. I want to be looking at the back of her head. Her spine. Her arse. How to tell her that all I’ve ever done, until her, is turn a woman round, so I don’t have to see her fear, her disgust. _Why do you want me_? I say, inside her but not moving.

There’s almost a smile, a curiosity. _Why do you want me_? she says, a bit of weight on the last word.

Our stomachs are touching, pressed close. Her thighs around my hips. _I want – I’ve always wanted you_ , I say, which isn’t an answer, and is more answer than I’ve ever given anyone. She’s still looking at me, an eyebrow raised, her face open, as if I’m not pushed halfway inside her.

I look at her shoulder, try again. _You’ve – look at you_. For the gods’ sakes, isn’t it fucking obvious? What, she needs me to tell her she’s the prettiest thing, now? _You’re. You’ve a shine on you_. My breath comes in bits. _More than anyone. But not just that. Just. Fuck, Sansa, what do you want me to say?_

She lies back properly, lifts her hand, curls it around my neck, over my hair. _Whatever your answer is, it’s mine too_ , she says.

 _Don’t lie to me_ , I say. _Not now_. 

She shakes her head, shifts her hips in a way that grips me a bit tighter, makes me shudder. _I’m not lying_ , she says, and tilts herself towards me a bit more, wraps her damned legs around me and I feel her heels on my back. _I love you_ , she says.

A twinge in me like a pain, like a sadness. It’s like hearing words in a foreign tongue, in Braavosi, in Pentoshi. They have shapes I don’t quite – 

Her heel presses against my tailbone. 

Gods and it’s sweet and slow and I never knew to do it like this, and I want to go faster but I won’t, not for her, not when she’s telling me it’s better for her like this, that it doesn’t hurt. With every push into her, getting deeper, I tell myself _she doesn’t love me. She said she did. She can’t love me. She said she did_. And she’s bloody melting around me and our skin’s fastening together like wheatpaste binding vellum. _She doesn’t love me. She said she did_.

 _Sandor_ , she says, and I look at her. _I do_ , she says. _I promise_.

The breath that comes out of me then is like a geyser, and I move again, and she’s stroking my back and she’s starting to tighten all over, she’s got bloody tighter, and - _she said she_ \- my heart’s bloody breaking, all of me is, breaking into her, and _she said_ \- I hear her gasp into my ear and clutch me hard enough to snap a bone.

Fucking gods. How did I not know it could be like that. 

_She said._

***

**Jaime**

It takes all the time that the light fades for Brienne to soften – butter taken out of a cold store in autumn – as I lie next to her, under her, finally on top of her. She’s perfectly slippery, but as soon as I attempt to enter her, she goes rigid. It’s like trying to get your hand through two tight-wedged rocks.

‘I’m sorry about this, but you really have to –’ 

She’s staring up at the ceiling. 

‘Brienne. If you’d just –’ I put my hand on her breastbone. Her heart gives long, loping thuds. ‘This is supposed to be enjoyable.’

She swallows and moves her legs apart. I slide in, break her, and she doesn’t make a sound – of course she doesn’t – just glares at me as if she’s just deciding which bit of me to bite off first.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a murmur, ‘but you know that was always going to happen. Let’s try and make this – I want you to take your pleasure, you know.’ I kiss her neck. The edges of the butter. Her collarbone, which is as good as the edge of a Mountain clansman’s shield. Shift up onto my elbow, place my lips on the side of her breast, and move in, slowly and as far as I can, at the same time.

Brienne lets out a long gasp, as if she’s sunk into a freezing lake. 

‘There we are,’ I say, and carry on.

***

**Sandor**

The roof’s coming back into focus and she’s on her stomach, her arms folded underneath her, looking like a bloody imp. Looking bloody pleased with herself.

 _Something’s made you happy_ , I say.

She nods, very definitely. _I think I felt – the – I don’t know what you call it_ , she says. _The_ – 

I don’t know what you call it either. A real one. Not sure most of those whores ever did anything outside play-acting – or at least, it’s as different as hells with her. _I know what you mean_ , I say. _Ay. Me too_.

 _What, you’ve never felt it before_? she says.

 _No, course I have_ , I say, and her face falls. _It’s a bit bloody easier for a man. A man could shoot off into a bloody barrel of fish -_ and I realise that’s the worst thing to say, ever. She’s looking a bit disgusted and like she’s about to hit me. _I mean_ – I lift a lock of her hair, which sighs over my fingers like an autumn wind. _I’ve not felt it like that_.

She narrows her eyes at me before the corner of her mouth curls up, and she looks pleased as a child with a party of dancing dwarves. I stare at her for as along as I can before I grin. Can’t help it. _Sweet bloody gods,, Sansa_ , I say. _You’re the end of me_.

 _You’re the end of me_ , she says. 

***

**Jaime**

There’s a sheen of sweat along her collarbone, and in the well at the base of her throat. She’s gazing at me – well, it might be more accurate to say staring. Slightly accusingly.

‘Are you alright?’ I say.

She blinks. Nods. 

‘Are in you in pain?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘Of course.’ I smile. Frown. I had hoped she would look a little more – perhaps elated was a bit much to hope for, but at least a small sense of happiness. Wonder. ‘What is it?’ I say.

‘I was always rather proud of being a virgin warrior,’ she says, quite plainly.

‘You’re still a warrior,’ I say. 

Her eyes fall. 

‘I’m sorry that you didn’t – I believe it is a little harder for women to reach their peak when they first -’ Cersei had already slept with the stablehand at Casterly Rock before she slept with me. Told me about it, lying in my bed with her hand on my arse. 

Brienne’s thoughts weigh the room down, great monoliths taking up the air. Perhaps I really am not that wonderful a lover. 

‘I hope you don’t regret it -’ I leave a small pause. ‘Too much.’

She leaves a long pause. ‘Not too much,’ she says.

I feel a little warm, sliding sensation of relief and shift over towards her, putting my arm underneath her neck.

‘What are you doing?’ she says. Coolly, with a bladed hint of challenge.

I look at her. 

‘It’s not appropriate for you to stay,’ she says. 

I think of listing the things we’ve just done that are less appropriate, but her eyes are that usual blunt swing of rocks. I sigh and get out, not looking at her as I dress enough to descend the stairs. She lies there, utterly still, watching me. ‘I bid you goodnight, then,’ I say, as casually as I can manage.

‘Goodnight,’ she says, as if we’ve only just met and she’s probably got to kill me in the morning.

It’s only when I’m in my own chamber that I realise I’ve left my hand by the side of her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR:  
>  The lyrics are lovely in [Led Zeppelin's 'The Rain Song'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDVnjCwCYCs) \- lots of summer and winter references. In fact, I can imagine Sandor, Jaime and Pod all listening to this song on vinyl in front of a crackly fire, all staring at the floor, trying to still look masculine, and failing.


	20. Naked In The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologise for the delay, but I was having far too much fun finishing off my Potential series and pretending to be Jaqen in the latest Baratheon Brothers madness. It's always joyous to be back in this (rainy) world, though. I have an ending planned and everything!
> 
> Thanks to Queen ZoeSong as always for the edit-job!

**Jaime**

I come upon Sansa with her hands around Clegane’s great chops and his hands on her hips. Neither of them seems in a terrible hurry to move away from each other as I approach. 

‘I’ll go and find Arya,’ Sansa says, with unselfconscious dreaminess. 

I’ll not deny that I’ve been walking around with something akin to that after last night with Brienne, even if she is nowhere to be found today.

I can’t say I slept dreadfully much, what with the memory of her beneath me, damn near crushing me with her thighs and with that faintly aghast look on her face as I expelled myself. Still, it wasn’t all bad. She did let me, after all. But I could do with making sure she is alright and doesn’t want to crush my balls between her fist, and not in a good way. 

I give Sansa a small bow as she passes me, and lean on the frame of the door. 

Clegane’s watching her float away. He catches my eye and his body alters in an instant, sharpening and tautening, as if being reminded he’s on watch. ‘Got something to say?’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Not at all. Only the fact that you are dishonouring Lady Sansa in plain sight of all of us, and the Sealord too.’ I ignore his ferocious glare. ‘I don’t deny that she appears to care for you, though I can’t personally see the attraction of a furious carthorse walking upright.’

‘Fuck you,’ he says, folding his arms.

‘As imaginative a riposte as always,’ I say, but Clegane’s look has already softened, as if he’s gone back to thinking of her already. Perhaps he has changed, a little. ‘You know you must marry the girl.’ His jaw tightens as if someone round the corner is pulling it by a string. I swear there’s the faintest hint of panic in his eyes, though he tries to disguise it. ‘Old Ned will be rolling over in his grave.’

‘Old Ned didn’t have a grave to roll over in,’ he says, recovering himself just enough. ‘I was there.’

‘Are you honestly telling me that your plan is to lie with Sansa Stark and not marry her?’

He looks a little stricken. Crosses his arms again as he leans back in his seat. ‘It’s none of your fucking business.’

‘It is when I’m one of your party. And, as you recall, I facilitated her escape from Kings Landing, so I feel I have some responsibility for her. Which is just as well, seeing as you don’t seem to.’

Clegane attempts to make his eyes go to blank, wet stone. ‘We haven’t discussed it.’

‘Well, perhaps at some point, you bloody well should. For the gods’ sake man, what example do you think you’re setting to Lady Arya?’

He snorts. ‘Speak for yourself. I’m not the only one fucking around.’

Ah. He’s got me in an armhold at that. I gaze at the wall. ‘I’m not sure that Brienne is the marrying kind.’ Or indeed the lying-with-me-again kind, seeing as she seems to have completely disappeared. 

Clegane’s about to say something when Podrick comes bustling in, his head down. 

‘Ah, Podrick,’ I say, trying to sound extremely unconcerned. ‘Have you seen Brienne on your travels?’ 

‘No, my lord,’ he says, and I see the small bag he’s holding. His eyes plummet away from mine. The boy's got a deep cut next to his eyebrow, Arya having muttered something about training last night. I am fairly sure that he would happily have his arm sawn off by that girl if it pleased her.

Bloody hells. ‘Look, Podrick,’ I say. ‘I didn’t think I’d actually ever be saying this, but I’m feeling rather uncomfortable about what you’re doing.’

‘My lord?’ he says with all the innocence in the world, smoothing away his face as he places the bag on the table. But his eyebrows give him away. They always do. 

‘I’m not an idiot. I know perfectly what what you’re up to. You know I was only saying it in jest when we first arrived here.’

Clegane is looking between us with a darkly-sketched, confused countenance. ‘What in hells’ name are you harping on about?’

‘Didn’t you ever hear the rumours about our favourite squire?’ I say. ‘Did my brother never report his prowess with the ladies? Whores giving Tyrion’s money back? I thought everyone in King’s Landing knew it.’

Podrick’s face is slowly turning the most intense shade of red. 

The eye on the unscarred side of Clegane’s face narrows as he stares at him. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me. The boy’s got a face like a bowl of lumpy whey.’

‘I don’t believe that it is his face that ladies are so interested in.’

Podrick bows his head and begins to move towards the door rather quickly, before there’s a piercing whistle from Clegane, the sort a shepherd might give to a dog several fields away. 

‘Sweet fucking gods.’ Clegane stands, puts a hand on the lad’s shoulder, wheeling him round and steering him towards his own chair. ‘Right, you. Sit.’

***

**Sandor**

I’m still thinking on what the squire has been reluctantly mumbling when I see the blacksmith and Wolfgirl against a wall. Arya’s sweet-talked the Sealord into letting him in to help make swords for some of the guards. The boy’s got his hand up past her, leaning over her, grinning. Whispers something in her ear, before she sees me and pushes him away, looking embarrassed. 

The boy turns round, sees me, straightens. Says his goodbyes, with a half-arsed bow to her, and comes past me. Little fucker’s had his hands on her, I bloody know it. 

_I don’t know who the fuck you think you are_ , I say, quietly. _You’re not to touch her_.

He stops. _Why not_? he says, bold as anything. 

What the fuck do I care? I think. Because I remember those Lannister cunts at the inn, and what they said about her. _Because I’ll cut your fucking bollocks off_ , I say, and stalk away.

 _What did you just say to him_? Arya says, catching me up.

 _None of your concern_ , I say, but can’t quite let it lie. _You’re too young_ , I say.

 _What the fuck_ , she says. _Keep your big fat nose out of it. I can do what I like._

_You shouldn’t trust them_ , I say.

 _Who_? she says.

 _Men all want one thing_ , I say. Aye, and I know who I’m talking about and all. Not just him. 

_Well, that’s plain as fucking day_ , Arya says. _You’ve taught me that well enough. Sometimes I wish I was bloody blind so I wouldn’t have to watch you and my sister slobbering all over each other._

I don’t say anything. Lannister’s words have been digging into my gut, and not because they’re new to me. It’s all I’ve thought of, of late. How I’m lying with Sansa, hearing her say those words I can hardly believe in my ear, thinking of what I should do. And how I’d never dare ask.

 _Anyway, men aren’t all the same_ , she says, following me outside into the training yard. _Just because you are an ignoble shit doesn’t mean they all are._

 _Name me one_ , I say. She opens her mouth to say the blacksmith’s name. _Not Gendry._

She slams her jaw shut. _Podrick_ , she says after a moment, and I bark a laugh that sends two seabirds squawking into the air. 

_Aye, you’re right there_ , I say, and laugh again. 

_What_? she says, suspicion scratched into her face. 

_He’s been bringing coin to Lannister_ , I say, and lean down. Lower my voice, unable to keep the amusement out of it. _Ask him how._

***

**Jaime**

I find Brienne on one of the furthest palace balconies, staring out at a particularly stormy sea, the sea no doubt losing the battle. ‘There you are.’

She doesn’t quite turn to me, glancing sidelong. ‘Hello,’ she says, cautiously.

‘Are you well, my lady?’ I say, and hope she can hear how much I mean it.

‘Yes,’ she says, carefully.

‘You’re not –’ I take one step closer. ‘I trust all is well with you? No – pain?’ I lower my eyes extremely briefly to below her waist. 

‘Shut up, Jaime,’ she says, blinking and looking out to sea again. 

‘Well then, you don’t have to avoid me,’ I say, gently.

‘I shouldn’t have let my guard down,’ she says, quite abruptly. 

‘Is that what that was?’ I say, not allowing myself to be hurt. ‘Brienne. It was – you must know that it was important for me. To be with you last night. I’m hardly playing with you. I’ve never been with any–’ I stop. A little too much shorn-bare honesty, even for me.

She turns to me, and one eye narrows marginally before her eyebrows raise. She knows what I mean. ‘No - whores?’ she says, carefully, and with not a little surprise.

‘Not a one,’ I say. Though it’s not as if I needed to be so damned faithful. I only learned in my later years that Cersei would probably fuck a horse if it had golden hair. Damn her. ‘So you see, you’re not just being used.’ I let my eyes sweep over her pale cheek, slapped wet by the howling sea-wind. 

Her shoulders give a little. I want to see them bare again, the candlelight glancing off her skin.

‘Shall I see you a little later?’ I say. 

She sighs louder than the wind. ‘I suppose so,’ she says.

***

**Arya**

‘Is it true?’

You have found Podrick in the kitchens, helping the cook, which he utterly does not have to do. He is always helping people. It is so unbelievably infuriating. A kitchen maid is giggling at him and you imagine slapping her in the face until she spits blood.

‘My lady?’ he says, wiping his hands on a bit of sackcloth. 

‘You.’ You jerk your head, getting him to follow you to the corridor. ‘That you’ve been –’ you kick the edge of the step you're standing on, more than once. ‘Earning us coin.’

Podrick looks very deeply at the floor, possibly as if he might make a hole appear and sink into it. Then he seems to change his mind about something, and looks up at you with one of his expressions that is like mud that has been smoothed over. ‘Yes, my lady.’

You can’t help raising your eyebrows in a way that you know makes you look stupid. Disbelieving. ‘I know how. I’m not an idiot. I remember the – the woman we saw.’ That finely-clothed woman on the barge, not long after you’d arrived in Braavos, and the line of men waiting. 

He sort of swallows, and doesn’t quite blush. The cut by his eyebrow where you whacked him last night has gone a dark, angry colour and the skin around it is going yellow.

He is being a _whore_. A boy-whore. You feel so odd about it – angry, like you want to find any girl, or woman, because it could be a woman, like an old woman, and punch them to death and kick them into the stinking harbour. And a different feeling, too, like you are the one being punched, maybe by someone who is a bit rubbish at punching. At this moment you hate every single woman except Sansa and Brienne.

You look up, thinking of the talk you’d heard on the Night’s Watch of men lying with boys. ‘Just women?’

‘Just women. Just two women. I mean, just twice.’

‘Twice? But you – you had a whole bag of coin.’ You’d barged into Jaime’s room and seen it, fat as anything on the table.

Podrick looks at his feet very quickly, and up at you again from under his eyebrows, and you suddenly wish that the floor would open up and take you.

‘I won’t if it upsets you, my lady. I’ll stop.’

There is a tiny bit of flour on his forehead, and for half a moment you imagine wiping it off, and then you imagine Gendry there, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, laughing at you. 

‘What do I care?’ you say. ‘Earn your stupid coin. Fuck all the women you fucking want.’ You push past him, storm out to the training-yard, and slash at short straw men for rather a while. 

***

**Jaime**

‘Right. Well.’

Brienne is lying on her back, marvellous chest heaving. My entire being aches. Both of us naked and a longsword’s length of moonlight across the bed. 

‘Right,’ she says again. 

‘You said that already,’ I say, turning my head. 

‘Well,’ she says. ‘Right.’ She does not seem capable of saying anything else, after the attentions I have just rather generously and diligently paid her. She finally looks over. ‘That was – right.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And for me, if I’m to be perfectly honest.’

She furrows her brow. ‘Then –’

‘Podrick.’

‘Podrick.’

‘I asked him for some advice.’ I'm assured enough to give credit where credit is due.

A look of bewilderment and, faintly, horror. ‘You asked Podrick for advice. On – that.’

‘He’s been earning us coin, good coin. It had to be something rather special.’

‘Podrick.’

‘He’s not one to refuse help.’

‘Podrick.’

‘Brienne, you can stop saying his name now before I start getting worried.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just – I can’t quite imagine. Podrick.’

‘Believe me, I don’t spend much time imagining it, but the boy has a gift. Which is just as well, seeing as he’s now paying for us to be under this roof.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘As I said, he’s been earning coin. Over on one of the courtesan’s boats. Doing dreadfully wonderful things to ladies. Or perhaps wonderfully dreadful things. You tell me.’

‘Dear gods.’ She leans up on an elbow. ‘You knew that Podrick was – whoring himself and you let him continue?’

‘I didn’t think he’d mind too much. I did tell him to stop. He just brought me more coin.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘I suppose now that I know a trick or two I could go and do it instead.’

She looks at me rather quickly.

‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t.’

This time I rather enjoy her fierce glare. My skin is hardening to them. I begin to shift upwards, even though I’m not entirely sure that I can yet stand.

‘Where are you going?’ she says, with the same quietly imperious manner that a queen might have.

‘Do you not want me to make a swift exit?’ I say, quietly, my shirt between my fingers. ‘Like last night?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I want you to do that again.’

***

**Sandor**

_But. Gods. Because –_

Sansa is saying words and sounding like a halfwit. She turns to me, her eyes wide. Shivers, quickly and violently. Stares at the ceiling. 

_Gods_ , she says. _You. It was – that was –_

She’s glistening, her thighs and her stomach and between her legs. Like the inside of a sea-creature’s shell. Gods, she tasted good. Felt good. I can smell her. 

_You alright there_? I say. Rub my jaw and wipe my fingers on the bedclothes.

 _Mmm_ , she says. _I – it was – because –_ Another shiver. _How did you –_ She makes a sound like a sailor thinking about being seasick and instead hiccups.

I shrug. 

I do want to wed her. Of course I fucking do. It’s not just – this. I know she should be marrying someone else, and I’d kill any fucker who tried. Once I would have stood back and let it happen, as I let a lot of things happen. Not any more. 

I can’t ever ask her. 

_Gods_ , she is saying. _I didn’t know. That you could. We could. Because –_

I lie back and listen to her nonsense, trying not to think about having dishonoured her even bloody more. 

No way in hells am I admitting that it had anything to do with the squire. 

***

**Arya**

‘What’s it like?’ you say.

Sansa’s come back to her own bed, and is lying facing the roof like it’s full of birds and ribbons and lemoncakes. There’s that smell on her again and you know exactly what it means. ‘What?’ she says, like she’s asleep and dreaming.

You turn noisily onto your side. ‘Fucking.’

‘ _Arya_.’ Her word blushes.

‘What?’

She whispers. ‘Don’t call it that.’

‘That’s what it is, isn’t it? What else do you call it?’

She opens her mouth and nothing comes out, just a little puff of air. 

‘He calls it that.’

‘Not to me.’

To everyone else then, you think, and manage not to say.

‘Lying together. Call it lying together.’ 

You roll your eyes. ‘ _We’re_ lying together. We’re not fucking. We’re not the Lannisters.’ You grin, a lot, at your own joke.

Sansa closes her eyes and puts her pillow over her head.

You move it away. ‘Sorry. I just want to know.’ So many times men had threatened you with it. You’d heard the Hound talk about fucking whores. And once or twice when Gendry was kissing you, you thought you’d felt his – _cock_ press against the top of your thigh before he’d moved away. But none of it really made you _know_ , not completely. You remembered once over hearing maids at Winterfell once talking about putting a carrot up themselves, but they didn’t eat carrots in Braavos. Well, you’d never found any, anyway. And now Podrick – you can’t imagine Podrick fucking anyone, and now it turns out he is fucking basically every single girl in Braavos.

Your sister gets a faraway look in her eyes. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Try.’

‘Like –’ she turns to face you, folding an elbow under her head. ‘The first time hurts. Or least I hurt. Like it didn’t fit right. But, once it does –’ she swallows, gently. ‘Fit right, then it’s something deep inside you, filling you up. Like a bruise. But a nice one.’

‘Does he – does he spill his seed in you?’

‘Only once or twice. Mostly he comes out and –’ it’s only now that she blushes. ‘spills it onto my back. Or my stomach. But it’s not just, you know.’ More redness. ‘Not just what you think. Lying with a man in the traditional way.’

‘What does that mean?’

She stares up at the ceiling. ‘Um. I’ll tell you another time.’

You feel slightly sick. But not completely.

‘Are you thinking about Gendry?’ she says.

‘No,’ you say. Sansa is grinning at you. ‘Shut up. I’m not.’

‘But you have kissed him. A lot.’ She looks like she’s woken up on Sevenmas. Eyes all sparkly. ‘Who is the better kisser, Gendry or Podrick?’

‘Shut up.’ It’s your turn to roll onto your back and stare at the roof. ‘I only kissed Podrick once. It doesn’t count.’ You stick the end of your thumb into your mouth and bite on it, hard. 

***

**Sandor**

The fat old Sealord has summoned the lot us. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed, except for the grease on his chin, which he’s mopping up as we all come in. 

_You are to leave_ , he says, words echoing around the great chamber.

We all stare at him. Lannister steps forward. _My good lord_ , he says, slick as anything. _We are so grateful for your generosity in harbouring us. But if it’s about coin, then I can tell you that I have acquired a good deal of it very recently and believe that it will pay for our stay a little while longer._

Arya’s glaring at the squire, who’s red as a beet.

The Sealord looks bored. _It is not honorable to speak of coin_ , he says, looking over all of our heads. _A raven has come_. He nods to the stone-faced guard on his left, who comes over with a small scroll. Gives it to Lannister. 

Tarth shifts, her hand on her sword handle, as stiff as if she’s been pasted with fish-glue. 

_My condolences_ , the Sealord says. 

Lannister stares at it for some time, and I can see the pulse tick in his jaw. It’s longer than he needs to read the damned thing. I wonder what news he’s about to give to the girls. Fuck. Try to think who’s left for them to lose. Snow, the half-brother?

Lannister swallows, and looks at Tarth. _We’re to go to Meereen_ , he says, quietly.

Tarth looks over at me, confused. 

_All will be arranged for your departure after the palace’s masked ball_ , the Sealord’s saying, though I’m hardly listening. _It is the pride of the Braavos._ Meereen. Where the dragon-queen is. Dragons. Fire-breathing fucking dragons. 

_Yes_ , says Wolfgirl, a joyful hiss under her breath, as we are dismissed. 

Lannister’s looking odd. Grey.

_Condolences_? I say quietly, as we get out to the hallway. 

Lannister looks at us all. _My daughter is dead_ , he says, and walks away from us. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME-TIME RADIO HOUR:  
>  All ladies cannot help but sing this song in delirious fashion during/after Podrick's tricks have been enacted, either by him or someone that he has reluctantly advised. I can only assume anyway. [Blue Pearl's Naked In the Rain!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLSGYZpsg9k)


	21. Make It Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta to Editor ZoeSong, as always.

**Sandor**

_It’s awful_ , says Sansa. 

_Yes_ , says Wolfgirl. 

The two of them and I are sitting in a window seat, watching the bastard rain slash against the window. Arya’s scratching at the glass with her dagger. Lannister has staggered away to the rooms after the Sealord’s message.

No one’s saying the obvious, which is that Lannister has never admitted that any of those golden-haired children were his, how he let it slip as he heard of another one’s death. But everyone knew, I suppose.

Ay, she was a sweet girl, that one. Plenty of smiles for all, even the odd one for me, the big ugly fucker scaring the hells out of everyone. Still, I can’t help saying a short thanks to the Mother for not killing any more Stark family. 

_Will he be alright_? says Arya. 

_Brienne’s with him_ , says Sansa. I can’t imagine how having that sow crushing Lannister’s hand would help, but sooner her than me. 

_Meereen_ , Sansa says more quietly, looking at me, half a question.

I’ve the scroll in my hand. Lannister shoved it at me before staggering upstairs. It was from Varys, of course. The eunuch with his hand in everyone’s pocket. I’m suspicious. I’ve still a mind that the man is playing with us, like we’re just cyvasse pieces, or that it’s all for Cersei Lannister. The message said to go to Meereen, meet with this dragon-queen, who is building an army. Begin talks. Promise alliances. Sounds like fucking madness to me. 

Alliances. Ay, and no way in hells will that mean Sansa marrying into the shitest family no one’s ever heard of. 

_What’s it like there_? Arya says, knowing full well I’ve never been. 

_Hot_ , I say. _Less bloody rain_. More bloody dragons, I think, breathing fucking fire in your fucking face. 

***

**Jaime**

Myrcella.

It was only Joffrey who grew madder as he grew taller. Myrcella, and Tommen, now our only child left, were always as sweet as lemongrass. They played together, sang, danced, and kept their temperaments as they got older. The times she would look at me and I would think, ‘I’m you father, child,’ and have a deep hum of pride, very distant, but there. And I would give her my uncle-smile and wheel her about, until she got a little too ladylike for that. 

Myrcella.

‘I’m so sorry, Jaime.’

I’m lying on Brienne, in Brienne’s bed. My cheek’s clamped to her chest. I’m faintly aware that she’s stroking my hair.

‘I’ll kill them all,’ I say. Slain by the Dornish. By Sand Snakes. I’ll kill everyone in Dorne. 

Brienne doesn’t say anything. Her hand’s on my cheek.

Myrcella.

‘We’re all gone,’ I say. The family is almost nothing. Lion’s bones. I see my father, Joffrey and my daughter, standing in a room, the door slamming shut. And then I think of Cersei, and the pain she will be feeling. The howl of anguish. 

‘There’s still hope for your brother,’ she says.

‘Is there?’ Varys’ message had said that he’d been sent to Meereen but there had been no word. I suppose we are Varys’ second plan. Tyrion’s probably at the bottom of the sea, or slain by the sellswords that Cersei must have roaming around all of the Known World, or at best, drunk out of his mind under a couple of women in a Pentoshi whorehouse.

‘There might be.’ Her fingers are on my temple. ‘There might be.’

***

**Arya**

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Gendry, sitting with you in the gardens, just under a stone roof. ‘Is he alright?’

‘Not really,’ you say. You’d only seen Jaime once since the message, quietly walking back into his room. You knew what it was like to lose so many. You’d wished death on all of Jaime’s family once, but not any more. ‘Um, anyway, there’s more. To tell you.’

Gendry looks at you. 

‘I think we’re going to Meereen.’

Gendry’s face changes, though he pretends it doesn’t. ‘Meereen? As in the slave city?’

You pick at your finger. ‘Sounds like it. Not sure there are slaves now. We’re going to talk to Danaerys Targaryan. She’s got dragons.’ You had heard one or two stories of her on the road, and they’d seemed just that – stories. Things that happened a long time ago. Visenya Targaryen, on the back of Vhagar, laying waste to Dorne during Aegon’s Conquest. And now Lord Varys was telling you all to go and meet a new Targaryen. Why else would he think she was important if she didn’t have dragons?

‘Right,’ says Gendry, looking at the floor. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

You do like it here, in Braavos. Training with the water-dancers, the slick dark cobbles, the nice guard who you sneak apple cobblers to, the food you get to stuff your face with. But you know that you can’t stay walled up in a palace forever. ‘I suppose so,’ you say.

Gendry is still staring downwards. 

You swallow, try and make your voice light and uncaring. ‘You could come with us.’

He turns his head. Blue winter-sky eyes. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know it rains a lot here, but I’m safe. No one’s trying to steal me or stick leeches on me.’ He’d told you about what had happened, in Dragonstone. The Red Woman and her fire. Though you were sure that he hadn’t quite told you everything. 

‘No one will do that in Meereen either,’ you say, though you have no idea whether that’s true or not. You’ve heard all sorts of things about the slave cities that make being stuck with little leeches sound like being bathed in flower petals.

‘You won’t just be going to Meereen though, will you? Going there means you’ll be going back to Westeros. Eventually.’

‘But Westeros is your home,’ you say. It’s my home, you think. 

‘Fleabottom was my home,’ he says, with that hint of wryness he always has. ‘Not sure I’m in much of a hurry to get back there.’

He was being an idiot. ‘But you’re –’ you glance around, lower your voice. ‘You’re a Baratheon. You’ve a claim to the throne as much as anyone.’

‘I’m a bastard. It’s not the same. And anyway, even if it was, I don’t want it.’ He clasps his fingers together and looks straight ahead.

‘So, what, you’re saying you want me to go?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he says, and stares at you. You swear that his gaze flays your skin a little.

***

**Sandor**

_Meereen_ , I say.

It’s a day later, and I’ve called a meeting. Lannister hasn’t got any less grey. All the lustre’s gone from him. Even his hair looks greyer. No idea what it’s like to lose a child, not least one that you’ve pretended is your bloody niece your whole damned life. Tarth’s eyeing him like he’s a heavily-pregnant cow she’ll have to tend to any moment. 

_You plan to go_? I say to him. My mind’s been whirling since Varys’ message. We’ve got it easy here, even if we are bored out of our minds. 

_There’s nothing for us here_ , he says, dead-faced. 

Tarth gives me the smallest glance and I see that she’s not in full agreement. Though I also see that she’d like to follow him anywhere. Daft mare.

 _Varys said that Tyrion was on his way there_ , Lannister says, and looks at me. _But there's been no word since_. 

Ay, and I read that as good as he did. I'm in no fucking hurry to see the Imp again, if he lives. _You think he’s on our side, then? Varys?_ I say. 

He stares at the floor. Not much of the man there would usually be, stalking the room, calm, full of plans.

 _It does sound like it_ , says Sansa, next to me, sitting up very straight. _We’ve been safe all this time_. 

_Not all that safe_ , I remind her, thinking of Arya being held by that sellsword in the market.

 _How – would we get there_? she says.

I’ve already looked at maps, though I hardly want to. _Ship_ , I say, thinking of the seventh hell that was my journey over the Narrow Sea to here, my mind leaking out of my wound. It’s a bloody long way. Further than I can almost imagine, round past Lys and the Disputed Lands, Volantis, Valyria. I see the words Slaver’s Bay and all I see is death. Danger. And we’re talking about this all on the word of that fucking eunuch, who says that this woman is the one to save Westeros.

Lannister looks up at me, nods slowly. 

***

**Jaime**

After another day, I make myself useful. It’s the only thing that stops my mind from crumbling. I send word to Morro, who’s had our horses all this time, to help arrange passage and supplies. 

The Sealord will charter a boat for us, for most of Podrick’s hard-earned coin. I joke to Brienne that if we run out, we’ll just send him ashore for an afternoon, to which she almost scowls, and I almost feel myself again. Almost. 

The Sealord has insisted we remain for the masked ball, which he seems to desperately want to show off, for some reason. Perhaps we’re to give Danaerys Targaryen a wonderful account of our time here, so that she can plan her future summers here, in this endless rain. 

‘Do you suppose she is really as noble as they say?’ Brienne says to me, as the guard leaves me with Morro’s last message.

‘Varys seems to think so. I didn’t always trust him as such, but he did always have very incisive judgement. I always thought he was on Cersei’s side, and my father’s, but I’m starting to realise that I was wrong about that.’

‘Is it worth it? To risk the girls’ lives going so far?’

‘I suppose it depends if you think that this is the life they should have, hiding in a palace forever.’

‘They’re safe. Alive.’

‘There’ll always be someone coming for them, Brienne.’

She sighs. ‘I know.’

***

**Arya**

The Hound is sitting cleaning his sword in the training-yard. He’s been swinging his sword about a bit more since being in the palace – you suppose his wound must be a lot better now, and maybe he’s realized that all the feasting he’s been doing is making him fat. Anyway, when Sansa’s learning her Braavosi and he can’t put his hand down her dress, he wanders outside, and the water-dancers go a bit pale, and form a line for him to attack. None of them last very long. 

You realise you have never called him anything. You’ve never even called him Hound to his face. If you had to shout, back on Westeros, you just shouted the thing you had to say – it was only the two of you so there wasn’t much need. ‘Sandor,’ you say, trying it out. Well, it is what Sansa calls him, probably whispering it in some pathetic girl way whilst he’s dribbling all over her. Ugh.

He looks at you, surprised. ‘What?’

‘Do you think she really has dragons?’ You sit down next to him. ‘Danaerys Targaryen?’ Jaime came to talk to you and Sansa, to see what you thought about going. It was quite nice of him, really, to at least ask you. Not that long ago, he’d just have been ordering you all around.

He folds his arms and gives a massive sigh behind closed lips, like there are loads of wasps in his mouth. ‘That’s what they say.’

‘Who says?’

He sniffs. ‘First Sword of Braavos said there have been reports from people coming here from other slave cities.’

‘Of what?’

‘All sorts. She sounds like a madwoman.’

‘But do you think it’s true?’

‘What?’

‘The dragons.’

‘I don’t bloody know, do I? The last one died out three hundred years ago, so it doesn’t make much fucking sense to me that they can just appear again out of thin air. Things have to breed.’

You don’t really want to think about things breeding. Ugh. ‘How big do you think it will be? The dragon?’

‘I have no fucking idea.’ He’s being odd, even more impatient than usual. Recently, he’s been going a bit soft, and less sweary, and he hardly drinks any wine, and you know it’s entirely to do with your sister.

‘Do you think it will breathe fire?’ 

‘Can you just stop fucking talking?’

You stop kicking your leg and look at his face, the burns shining. ‘Oh. Shit.’ That explained his oddness. Of course he would be terrified. ‘It’s alright to be scared,’ you say. ‘I expect lot of people are scared of dragons. They’re probably just babies. You can probably cuddle one.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Alright, you’ve had your fun. Bugger off.’

You don’t. ‘They’re probably not real,’ you say, to make him feel better. ‘Maybe I should start stories. About me and Sansa. That we have flying direwolves or something.’

‘Ha bloody ha.’

‘Can Gendry come?’ Gendry didn’t say yes, the other day, when you asked him. But he didn’t say no. 

He looks over at you. ‘Why?’ Narrows his eyes.

Because you can’t leave him here. Not after everything. You’ll never come back to Braavos. ‘Because he’s my friend.’

‘Ay. I’ve seen that.’

‘He could be useful. Make us swords.’

‘We’ve got swords.’

‘Because I want him to, then.’

He sighs and stares at the water-dancers working in pairs in front of you both. ‘Ask Lannister.’

You get up and he speaks to your back. ‘Calling me by my name now, are you?’

You stop, shrug as you turn back round. ‘I could call you shitbreath or arsecunt if you like.’

He almost grins. ‘What does your sister think of you speaking like that?’

‘She thinks it’s all your fault.’

He does grin, then.

***

**Sandor**

Sansa hasn’t left yet. She’s been staying later, as the sweat dries on us and our smells leach out into the air, but in the end she always slides out, in the middle of darkness, back to her sister.

Now though, with a stub of candle left, she’s staring at me.

 _What are you thinking about_? I say. 

_About what will happen_ , she says.

Well, that doesn’t give away much. I just stare back. _Do you want to go_? I say. _To Meereen_?

Her face stills. I try to imagine the thoughts whirling round in that skull of hers. I swear that she can read me like a damned book, but I never know what’s going on in there. What she thinks about it all. About this between us. She’s going to be on show, more than she has been here in Braavos. She won’t be able to carry on as we’ve been doing. 

_Just because bloody Varys says we should doesn’t mean we have to_ , I say. _Even if Lan_ – I try and be better. _Jaime_ , I say. _Even if he wants to_.

 _He wants to find his brother again_ , she says, the words quiet. _You can understand that, can’t you_?

I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is of my own brother, and how I’d take myself down into the seventh hell to find him and kill him properly. _Ay_ , I say. 

_I miss them_ , she says. _My brothers_. 

She doesn’t speak of them much. I hardly remember the younger ones, couple of smallish things running around in Winterfell that one time, one with curly hair. The Young Wolf I have more of in my head, as there’s a bit of him in Sansa, I think. Last I saw of him was his body on his horse, and his direwolf’s head atop it. Once or twice, I’ve heard her and her sister talk of one them, faces bright for half a moment before they go quiet.

 _I know_ , I say, and pull her closer, put my arms around her shoulder blades. _I’m sorry. I’m just saying – we don’t have to go with them. We can go – you and me, and your sister – elsewhere_.

 _Where_? she says.

I take a breath, and another, and don’t say a thing. Westeros is a pit of bloody snakes for them both. Anywhere on Essos seems treacherous. I don’t have an answer. 

Her face sets like cool milk. Solemn. _We are stronger together_ , she says. _All of us. We should stay together_. 

I know she’s right, of a fashion. There’s nowhere for us to hide. Not for long. I nod. 

_Lord Varys seems to think that Danaerys Targaryen is a good person_ , Sansa says. _That she can help us. That we can help her_. 

_You know that going to Meereen, if it goes well_ – if we don’t get our heads cut from our shoulders or turned into bastard slaves and roasted alive by dragons, I think – _means going back to Westeros_ , I say.

She turns onto her back, stares at the roof. _I know_ , she says. I listen to her blinking, and to the tiny fizz of the burning wax in the candle. Then she’s all movement, bringing her top half on top of mine, her face close. _When we left on the boat to come here, I felt like plates of armour were lifting from me_ , she says. _Apart from leaving you_. 

I feel my heart give loud thumps, as if it’s trying to break out and get behind her ribcage. At the thought that she did care for me, back then. 

_For once_ , she’s saying, _I felt a little safer. And it’s been good here, not expecting to be killed at any moment. But_ – she takes a breath, and her hand goes behind my ear. _Winterfell is my home_ , she says. _Mine and Arya’s. And it’s been taken from me. I want it back, and if making an agreement with Danaerys Targaryen can help, then I want to try_.

I see the queen in her, then. The shine on her cheekbone, the jut of her jaw. Part of me lifts, like great wings, and the other part sinks further into the floor at the thought that she’ll leave me, one day soon. 

_You’re a brave bloody woman_ , I say. 

_Not yet_ , she says. _But I want to be_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME TIME RADIO HOUR:**  
>  Jaime, listening miserably to[ Ed Sheeran](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzLCQaHF84o), thinking about his family.


	22. Rainmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the magnificently marvellous ZoeSong for her editing eagle-eyes.

**Sandor**

I wake and she’s there, tucked up into me, her skin hotter than mine, as hot as a bloody bread oven. It’s the first time she’s ever been here until morning.

Sansa shifts and turns over, a little click going in her throat, blinks awake. The morning coming slowly into her face.

 _Last night, you didn’t – we didn’t lie together_ , she says.

 _I know_ , I say.

 _Did I do something wrong_? she says, a little line dug deep between her eyebrows. _Did you not – want to?_

I shift my palm under her head and she rolls her cheek onto it. _I always want to_ , I say. _We don’t have to be in bed for me to be thinking about it_. But I say it as bluster, to hide what I felt, really. That it was more special, the fact that we hadn’t. We’d been lying next to each other, talking, about all sorts, anything really, our families, childhoods. Good things. We had just fallen asleep, her just before me, and it hadn’t mattered that I’d not taken her. 

She gazes at me. _I should go back to my chamber_ , she says.

 _She’s old enough to look after herself_ , I say. It’s not as if Wolfgirl didn’t have a year of lying on her own, and years before that.

 _I know_ , Sansa says. _But I think she likes me to be there_. 

Makes me realise that I don’t understand sisters at all, really.

 _Anyway_ , I say. _Bet you’re looking forward to tonight._

Her cheeks lift as she remembers about the Sealord’s bloody masked ball. I can’t see the point. We should be off before it, even during it maybe. But the girls – even Arya – seemed excited, and Lannister consented. _I can hardly remember how to dance_ , Sansa says, grinning.

 _Well, you’ll be able to dance with any man you choose_ , I say. 

_I only want to dance with you_ , she says.

I raise my eyebrows at her. _No damned chance_ , I say. 

She grins again. 

***

**Arya**

The bed’s cold. Sansa didn’t come back all night. You shouldn’t feel hurt, but you do, a little. 

Before you went to sleep, you tried to imagine someone else sleeping there instead. You put the pillows up next to yourself, like a boy’s body. Kissed your hand. 

***

**Jaime**

‘Jaime.’

At least Brienne is here. I can blot out my grief when she is on top of me. To be honest, it’s very hard to think of anything else. 

‘Jaime.’

‘Sorry. Yes.’

The last few days have been a strange blur of dead, blank grief for Myrcella and comfort, by way of Brienne. She seems to have shaken off all her doubts, for now, at least. The pragmatic, caring side of her beating the part of her that scowls at me and wants to run away. 

‘Jaime. Do you want us to stop?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

We’ve lain together again, more than once. It’s been mostly quiet and rather thoughtful, and I’ve worked hard to give her pleasure - and have, mostly. Though I’m starting to feel my age. I keep getting a cramp in my hip. 

‘I think I’ve been doing the wrong sort of training,’ I say, afterwards, bringing the blanket over us both - miraculously, she’s let me stay in her bed now - though it barely covers both of us. Halfway through the night I found myself shivering, Brienne having blithely rolled herself up in the whole damned thing, and there was a gentle battle that I only just won, what with the only minor advantage of being awake.

Brienne just looks at me, her face flushed, and rolls her eyes before getting up and washing herself.

I don’t want any more children. They die. And I’m fairly sure that she doesn’t want any either – I mentioned moon tea the other day, and she looked rather green and found some almost immediately.

‘Do you miss her?’ she says, afterwards, lying back next to me. Words from out of nowhere. But then, I’ve been staring at the roof for rather a long time. ‘Jaime.’ It’s like a leech drawing blood – you don’t want to, but it’s going to be sucked out whether you like it or not.

‘I miss Tyrion,’ I say. ‘I hope he’s not dead. I miss my daughter.’ It’s unspoken, of course, that I’ve broken my long-held vow of silence over my children. It’s as if we’ve skipped the big revelation over what I am. What we were.

‘That’s not who I meant.’

‘If you mean Cersei, then I miss what she was. She became – I think being married to Robert Baratheon for all those years wore her down in the end.’ I glance at her. ‘She wasn’t always like that.’ No, once she was ten and five, chasing me endlessly through that bloody white meadow near the castle, falling on me, whispering the things she knew I wanted to hear, knowing I wanted her hands exactly where she put them. ‘I want to know how she is,’ I say, thinking again of her grief, which will be a gold-edged rage.

‘Even though she wants to kill Lady Sansa and Lady Arya? Wants to kill us all, probably?’

I smile, a wan, regretful one. ‘Even then.’

She shakes her head, a small movement that belies her probable disdain for me at this precise moment. ‘Why did you do it? Why for so long?’ she says. It all reminds me that I’m not necessarily the great catch I often fancy myself as. I’m an incestuous ex-kingsguard.

‘Why what?’ I feel petulant. Destructive. ‘Say it. If you want to discuss this, you might as well be able to get the words out.’

Her look is bald, pale. ‘That you were – incestuous.’

It’s almost laughable, that word. It doesn’t begin to describe what we were. ‘It just happened. Blame my father, probably. He always said that there was no one better than a Lannister. We just took that to its natural conclusion.’ 

_Un_ natural, I hear her thinking, loud as a tolling bell. She looks sad, and not as steely as she often is. 

‘And yet here you are,’ I say. It’s funny, that having never talked about it to anyone, it’s easy to talk about it now, with the woman I’m lying with. Preposterous.

She sighs, the sound of a sea-wind coming into landing. ‘Yet here I am.’

***

**Arya**

You find Podrick talking to Brienne, who you’re surprised is even up and about, seeing as most of the time now she is in her room fucking Jaime Lannister. She keeps giving you guilty looks.

Now, she is speaking in a low voice, the way she does when she’s worried, or angry, or a bit of both. Podrick is blushing. 

Podrick bows and walks away from her, his head still down, and almost bumps into you. ‘My apologies, my lady. I didn’t see you.’

Because you don’t look for me anymore, you think. Because you are too busy going out and whoring your cock for coin. He is wearing his cloak, which you haven’t seen him in for ages. It makes him look older. 

‘Where have you been?’ you say, folding your arms. You’re starting to walk without the crutch now, and being able to fold your arms again is almost one of the best things. 

‘Nowhere, my lady. Just – out.’ His stupid, pretend-innocent face. 

‘Out.’ You raise your eyebrows. Glare.

The redness is creeping down his neck. ‘I was just running an errand for Ser Jaime. He wanted me to check the ship’s cabins and talk to the captain.’ 

Tomorrow. You were going to set sail for Meereen tomorrow. It didn’t quite seem real, but somehow, you were ready, too. Ready to see a new place, and hopefully one where it didn’t rain every single damned day.

‘You haven’t been anywhere else?’ you say, kicking the wall. You can do that better without the crutch, too.

‘No, my lady.’ He still has his head down, and glances across at you. ‘I didn’t think you’d like it.’ Every word that ever comes out of his mouth is completely bloody light and you never have any idea what he is thinking. 

‘Why do you think _I_ care?’ you say before you can help it. 

Podrick opens his mouth and shuts it just as quickly.

You need to talk about something else, immediately. ‘Have you got a mask? For tonight?’ Your words are coming out like little knife-stabs. You can’t help it. 

‘I’m not sure I should be coming, my lady. As a squire.’

‘It doesn’t matter that you’re a squire.’ Idiot. ‘You’re the Sealord’s guest, just like the rest of us.’ You kick the wall some more. ‘Sansa will make you a mask.’ 

Sansa has been making everything for everyone for days, because it is what she loves to do. She might be different now, in lots of ways, but she still bloody loves _sewing_. 

And if you have a mask then I won’t have to look at your stupid annoying wide red blushing bloody face, you think.

***

**Jaime**

‘That’s not a very convincing disguise,’ I say.

I find Brienne in her room, large and beautiful as ever in her armour, though the great gold-furred mask does surprise a little.

She turns, briefly, before looking back at the small mirror that she has placed high up on the windowsill and fiddling with the ribbons at the back of the mask. ‘Well, it will have to do. It’s not supposed to be a disguise, is it? Just a costume.’ She sighs, quick and heavy as she brings the mask away from her face, the ribbons dangling. ‘I loathe all this nonsense.’

I step up behind her and take the mask from her hand. ‘Been to many masked balls, have you?’

‘No, thank the gods. My father knew rather better than that.’

I place the mask back round her face and bring the ribbons around her hair at the back of her skull, while Brienne stands stiffly. Red and gold. Sansa’s colour choices haven’t entirely escaped my notice. ‘We’ll just make a decent appearance, say our pleases and thank-yous to the Sealord and be on our merry way tomorrow.’

‘Do you suppose we’ll be alright?’ Her cool blue eyes are fixed on me from the mirror.

‘On the sea?’

‘On the sea. In Meereen. Everything.’

I haven’t entirely forgotten that there’s a small problem with us going there at all. The not-quite-forgettable fact that I killed Danaerys Targaryen’s father. But Varys must have made communication with her knowing that. And after all, my family killed most of Sansa and Arya’s, and here we all are together. It’s a brave new world. I hope. 

‘I’m not a foreteller,’ I say. ‘We will just have to look after each other.’

Brienne looks at me doubtfully. ‘If you say so.’

I watch as she goes back to fussing rather endearingly with her ribbons. I suppose she does not realise how much she’s looked after me in these last days. 

***

**Sandor**

Whenever there was a feast-night or the hall was full of highborn idiots in their cups dancing, I’d be in the shadows watching Joffrey drink wine and listen to the shit he’d say about some of the girls, not much of it repeatable to anyone other than him. 

Now I’m watching from behind a stupid bloody mask, one of the guests. I still stand in the shadows. Feel awkward as fuck.

We’ll just get the damned night over with. Let Ferrego fucking Antaryon show off his his money and his people and the crazy menagerie of animals – some of them are walking about in one of the other rooms, a black and white striped horse, apes in masks, a mouse-pig as big as a cow, all leaving shit everywhere – and then get to bloody bed.

Last night, we had to sit and listen to him drone on about the Unmasking of Uthero or whatever the hells he called it. Braavosi revealing itself to the world as a city for the first time and something to do with escaped slaves, meaning they celebrate by getting royally pissed and wearing masks for ten days. Thank fuck we’re leaving tomorrow.

 _Guess who_ , says a girl close to my ear, who can only be one girl, because I swear I’d have to be blind and deaf to not know her.

 _No bloody idea_ , I say, and let her take my arm. 

Sansa’s mask is grey and has swan feathers on it, fanning outwards, and they tickle my beard as her face comes close. 

_There’s a cage full of glowing green insects in the other room_ , she says.

 _Ay, and they’ll bloody poison you if you go near them_ , I say. _The man’s as mad as a monkey_.

She turns round, still on my arm, and we watch the people float past, all of them masked. There are guards at every pillar. It feels safe enough, though my sword’s still at my side. 

Her body’s close. I think of her laid up against me earlier, in my bed. I want to have her like that now, stripped bare. Being next to her like this in front of people makes me remember what foolery the whole thing is, me and her. Makes me remember that we’re off to a new place tomorrow, where her being a highborn princess and me being who I am is going to feel like more than being naked. 

Lots of younger men here. Bastards with straight backs and shiny fucking masks, not like the one Sansa’s made me, which is black and made of leather, with yellow stitching you’d only notice if you were up close. I remember this part too well. Watching her be danced with by a load of smooth-slippered fuckers, biting down my jealousy. It’ll feel like old times.

***

**Arya**

Hands round your waist, on both sides. The grip is gentle, but sure. You don’t turn round for a moment and lean back into the warmth of him.

‘Hello,’ he says.

‘Hello,’ you say back.

He moves you round and gazes at you, bright blue eyes through the holes in his mask. ‘It’s me.’

‘I know. Now.’ You tap the cheek of Gendry’s mask, which is metal. He’s made it himself. ‘It’s a bit hard to tell who is who.’

‘Who did you think I was?’

‘No one,’ you say, quickly.

He grins and you realise that you’d know that grin anywhere even if you couldn’t see his eyes, because of the way his skin creases at the sides.

‘I almost kissed another girl over there because I thought it was you,’ he says, in a lightly teasing voice.

‘What girl?’ you say, spinning round, jealousy rashing in your chest. 

Gendry points to a corner of the ballroom, where a short girl with brown hair is dancing with a really skinny blond man wearing a long cape. She does look a bit like you, you suppose. Though fatter. And while she’s probably dancing better than you could, you bet that she can’t water-dance.

‘ _Did_ you kiss her?’

‘I said _almost_.’ His hands are back around you, and his face is close. You try to kiss him and his mask clangs against yours. He grins again. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ Sansa seriously made masks for every damned one of you, sitting up all night sticking and sewing, and not even blinking when you said you wanted a dragon one. Your mask has dark-green scales that glimmer and go a bit purple in the right light. Tonight, you are Visenya. 

Your Grey Swan sister is there. ‘Good evening, Gendry,’ she says with a smile, and gives you both a goblet of wine. You still don’t really like wine, but you sip a bit. 

He does a little bow. ‘Good evening, m’lady.’ He still calls her m’lady, even if he doesn’t to you. Not like Podrick, in which every second word is _lord_ or _lady_ or he’ll die. 

Sansa sighs happily as she turns and faces the room, and you remember, for a moment, what she used to be like. She would talk for days if there was any sort of feast at Winterfell, about what she would wear, how she would do her hair, what they would eat. It would bore the ears off you. Now, she’s excited, but she’s cool and careful, too. More grown-up. 

You see her shoulders go stiff and follow her gaze. A woman in a long, white dress is standing in front of the Hou- _Sandor_ , and standing in a way that makes it perfectly clear that she is not talking about the war of the Five Kings or the history of the Northern Houses. She is quite close to him, her white cat-mask tapering into two points, touching the rim of her goblet with one finger, glancing up at him. 

‘Who is that?’ Sansa says, and the words sound as if they are being sieved out.

Sandor is folding his arms, and unfolding them, and folding them again. Looking down at her and over her head. 

‘Dunno,’ you say. ‘But she looks like she knows him.’

The woman leans forward, putting a hand on the front of his shoulder. Squeezes.

‘Or wants to,’ Sansa says, very stiffly.

‘Wants to get down his breeches you mean,’ you say into your goblet, enough for her to just about hear.

Gendry nudges you gently. 

Sansa takes your goblet and drinks all of your wine, very quickly, and gives it back to you.

***

**Jaime**

‘Dance with me.’

The small troupe of musicians up on the ballroom balcony have changed to something a little faster, and people around us are lining up together. Brienne and I obviously not included, as yet.

‘No, thank you,’ she says. 

‘Why on earth not?’

She folds her arms with a clunk. ‘You made your opinions on the matter quite clear when I was training with the water-dancers.’

‘Dance with me, Brienne.’ 

‘I’m in armour.’

‘As am I. Go on, we’ll give the people of Braavos a thing or two to gossip about.’ I step closer. ‘It would make me happy.’

‘I want to watch the ladies.’ She looks over my head, to where Arya and, I assume, Gendry are standing. Sansa seems to be finishing Gendry’s wine and handing it back to him. ‘There are a lot of people here.’

‘It’s quite safe, I think. The First Sword said that Faceless Men have been hired as extra guards for the night.’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ she says, not meaning it at all. ‘And which ones are they?’

‘We’re all masked, Brienne.’

A young man is there, holding two brimming goblets.

‘Is that you, Podrick?’ Brienne says. 

‘Yes, my lady.’ Podrick is wearing a purple and white checked mask, and hands us each a drink. ‘Lady Sansa made it for me, my lady. It’s the colours of my house.’

‘Of course it is,’ I say.

‘The coins, too,’ he says, pointing to the gold-coloured circles, and sounding rather pleased in that understated way of his. ‘They’re from the Payne sigil.’

‘Coins. Well, we shan’t be seeing any more of those from you, will we Podrick?’ Brienne says, in a way that suggests that she will be cutting both of his legs off if he disobeys. 

I can still see him blush, even under that damned mask. ‘As you say, my lady.’

***

**Sandor**

I’m still staring blankly into the space where the white cat-masked woman was just standing when it’s filled with a really bloody angry-looking swan. _You said you wouldn’t dance_ , she says.

 _I wasn’t_ , I say. That woman came from nowhere. And was in her cups. I could smell it on her breath. 

_She was_ , Sansa says, the first word spat out, sounding madder than all seven hells put together.

 _Ay, in front of me_ , I say. The woman sort of slinked her hips around and made sure I got a good look down the front of her dress, which I tried to avoid. Mostly.

 _You didn’t walk away_ , she says. 

_She didn’t give me much room_ , I say, to which she just makes a noise like a really pissed-off toddler. _Sansa, she only did that because I’m a big fucker. She’d have scarpered if she’d seen my damned face_.

 _I wouldn’t_ , she says, furious, stabbing a finger at herself. _I wouldn’t scarper_.

I try not to laugh at hearing her say that word, which sounds daft coming out of her highborn mouth. _I know_ , I say. _Come here, woman_. There was me thinking I was going to be fighting the men off of her, roaring jealousy. I can practically see it steaming out of her ears. 

_No_ , she says, and I smell the wine on her bloody breath and all. _I’m going to get a drink_. She jabs her finger into my stomach. _You don’t have to come_.

***

**Arya**

You’re in the room with the high ceiling where the animals are. It’s a bit of an odd sight. A really old cave-lion is lying on its paws, looking up at the guests, half of whom look a bit like animals themselves in their masks. There’s a lizard that seems to be changing colour. The Sealord is telling a group of rich-looking fat men and women about one animal which has a neck as long as a tree trunk, and a blue tongue, and he says it’s only a baby one. They’re still not a patch on dragons.

Podrick is there, looking awkward, like he doesn’t know how to be a guest and would rather be serving honeycakes and pouring wine. It’s easy to tell who it is behind the purple and white and gold mask - you’ve spent so long with him you could probably draw him blindfolded. Draw everyone, you mean. 

You go up to him. ‘That your House, then?’ You nod at his mask.

He glances round to you, and looks into his goblet. ‘Yes, my lady.’

You are both standing in front of a parrot. It squawks and flaps its wings. ‘Ferrego Targaryen!’ it blurts. ‘Ferrego Targaryen!’ Everyone laughs in the way that people do when they don’t really care what they’re actually laughing about. 

‘Idiots,’ you say.

‘I’m sorry I’ve made you angry,’ says Podrick, suddenly, and takes a breath. Looks at the parrot. ‘I won’t be doing it any more. Lady Brienne made her feeling on the matter quite clear.’

You glare at the parrot, who is banging the two bits of its beak together. _Clack clack_. ‘Would you want Brienne to whore herself? Or me?’

‘No, my lady.’ He sounds aghast.

‘Well, then.’ You can’t think of what to say next. You both carry on walking along the cages of the smaller animals, a snake with strange bright blue wiggles on it. 

‘You look very nice,’ he says, quietly. 

He didn’t say _my lady_ that time. You let out a little breath. ‘I have to go now.’ You don’t look at him, turning quickly on your heel and limping towards the big ballroom, towards the noise of laughing and dancing and the troupe of musicians on the balcony. Braavosi music isn’t very good. It is like sick being poured into your ears. 

There he is. Gendry. He’s standing talking to someone who he maybe knows from the smithy here in the palace. _He_ is the one you like, you think. Definitely. 

You begin to stalk over to him when there’s a scream over to your right, in the far corner. Someone falls to the ground and people cluster around. You dash over. It’s the short girl, the one with the brown hair that Gendry said looked like you. She is bleeding from the middle of her chest, and the skinny blonde boy is pulling off her mask and you can see that she is already dead. 

Gendry is there, over the other side of the group of people that grow around the girl. He looks up at you and his face changes. You see his thoughts at the same time that you hear your own. 

The girl was supposed to be you. Someone thought it _was_ you. 

They had been meaning to kill _you_. 

***

**Sandor**

There’s a bit of noise that’s new, over the fiddles and drums. A scuffle in the corner. I go over, almost have a heart attack. 

The girl on the floor. Small, brown hair. Bleeding.

I remember Wolfgirl’s dragon-mask. It’s not her. 

Arya’s there, under my nose, the real one. Thank fuck. _Where’s Sansa?_ she says, her breath sharp, and I realise, the thought coming too slowly, what’s happening. _Something’s wrong_ , she says.

Sansa. Fuck. 

_You_ , I say to her, pulling out my sword. _Stay close_. And I storm towards where the drinks were being served, push past people. Swords are beginning to come out – guests, but maybe enemies, too. Could be fucking anyone. 

There’s something growing slowly in the room, voices getting louder and people looking around. Everyone eyeing each other. A sudden movement, a woman’s scream. My heart lurches up into my throat hoping it’s not her, not Sansa. The music stops in the middle of a bit of the tune.

I get to where the servants are still standing with trays. She’s not there. Where the fuck is she? 

_There’s more than one here_ , says Arya, by my side. _There must be_. 

It’s like a great wave, distant at first, the way people begin to panic, realising that something is up. More screams, more jostling, swordsmen looking for someone to fight. No one knowing who to look for. Everyone masked. 

And then it’s the calm before the storm. As if a signal has been given. Around us, in between us, men in darker-coloured masks draw their swords. 

***

**Jaime**

‘Brienne,’ I say.

‘I know,’ she says.

The masks do nothing for us. Nothing for Clegane, who I can see over the other side of the vast ballroom, towering above the others. I can’t see Sansa with him. 

There are perhaps eight men with their swords out, eight men who look more purposeful than the rest. They’re already moving, fanning outwards.

‘Find Sansa,’ Brienne says, stalking towards them. There’s no question of hiding. We’re better in plain sight, here. Fighting.

And it starts. 

I can see men heading for Clegane, brushing past the panicking guests, and he’s stopped whatever he was doing – looking for Sansa, I am sure – and gets Arya behind him, though she seems to resist. His sword out. 

I skim the edges of the room, pushing off a woman who suddenly falls on me, clawing at my face. There’s someone else down on the floor, but it’s not either of the girls.

Clegane’s got three men on him, and Arya is jumping in there, doing her best. 

The palace guards are trying to move guests out of the room, but they’re all pushing and shoving, pigs in a slaughter pen. It’s chaos. 

I must find Sansa. That’s why we’re here after all, not to save ourselves. 

I see Brienne in the fray, and fear for her, yet at the same time know that if anyone will keep fighting until their head’s off, it’s her. She’s swinging about, brutal, but I swear there are one or two water-dancing moves in there. A little more shape in the air, even with Oathkeeper. All the while looking about for the girls. 

The blacksmith boy in his metal mask is close by. ‘Sansa,’ I say to him. ‘Not just Arya.’ He nods and moves, swiftly, though the sword he’s holding looks uncomfortable in his hand. Immediately there’s a sharp nudge of pain in my back, bone only, thank the gods, and I turn to see a tall man and the hilt of his sword coming for my eye. 

***

**Arya**

The sound is of swords and of shouting. Brienne is fighting two or three guards. Sandor is pulling his sword out of a man’s shoulder. You only have the dagger Gendry made for you. You dash out of the way of one swordsman in a dark-brown mask, the metal sliding past your back, and roll on the floor. You see Sansa under a table, eyes wide, arm bleeding, and look back to see the man’s legs right there. You kick your leg out, your bad one, and trip him. 

Not enough. He’s up again as quickly as you are, and there’s hard metal in his eyes, metal in his hand, coming at you, and – 

‘My lady -’ 

Podrick. Podrick is there, pushing you out of the way, or getting himself in the way, a soft mass of him.

There’s a sound that you’ve never heard him make before, a strange yelp like a puppy, but with lots of air, and he stumbles.

You stumble too, falling on your hip, and the sword is coming straight for you, and it is slashed away. A cry. The brown-masked man falls on top of you. 

You close your eyes, just for a moment and there is nothing but the sound of metal meeting metal, and ladies screaming, and the man dying on top of you. 

You can’t breathe. Ribs, crushing. You are going to die underneath a dead man. Everyone must be dead. Sansa is dead.

*** 

**Sandor**

I can’t see either of them. Fuck. 

The balance is shifting, slowly. I’m aware of guards in there properly now, and others fighting back. 

I elbow this last man in the back of the head, bring my sword down, hard. The sound of bone, the feel of it, crunching. 

And a whimper, underneath the table. I bend down. Two bright eyes look back at me. 

***

**Arya**

‘Sweet girl.’

Light. You see light, opening up above you, as the man is pushed off you. A hand, helping you up. 

‘Jaqen?’

‘There is no Jaqen,’ the man says, leaning down. It is him. The way he was on Westeros. Red and white hair. Cat-eyes. He takes your mask off. ‘A man has no need of such a mask. Are you safe, lovely girl?’ His hand is on you, turning you round, looking for injuries. You hurt all over, but you’d know a stab wound if you had one.

‘Yes,’ you say, a little blankly. Around you, the sounds are disappearing, becoming finer, single sword thrusts and people groaning. The First Sword of Braavos is dancing, like water. Other guards nearby. A man in a brown mask, bleeding from his mouth and his stomach.

‘Then a man shall take his leave.’ He bows, a shallow one. There are a few faint flecks of blood on his forehead. ‘A girl should see to her friend.’ In the time you have taken to blink he is nothing more than a swish of cloak amongst the milling people, and another blink before he has disappeared completely. 

Friend. You look around. Sandor has Sansa in his arms, and she is awake, and alive, though her arm is soaked red. Jaime, wiping blood from his forehead with the heel of his hand, looking around, finding your eyes, nodding. Gendry, coming towards you, unhurt.

And Brienne, leaning over Podrick, who is on the ground, blood seeping in a pool around his neck.

***

**Jaime**

Guards help Brienne carry Podrick out of the ballroom to the kitchens, Brienne clattering pans loudly off a table to set him down as she takes his mask off. She’s visibly shaken, shouting at everyone, shouting for a healer.

Clegane is carrying Sansa in, her arm hanging out in front of her.

‘My lady,’ I say, at the same time as Arya saying her name.

‘I’m alright,’ Sansa says, in a thin, tight voice. ‘I’m fine. It hurts. It just hurts.’ 

‘I’ll kill them all,’ Clegane says to her, and looking at me. I know he doesn’t mean just Cersei’s sellswords, who surely are all dead now, but still, I don’t doubt it. His eyes fall on the great table in the middle of the room, and go dull.

‘Podrick,’ Sansa says in a gasp, and wrestles herself out of Clegane’s arms. She stumbles over to his side.

I get over there. ‘It’s alright, lad,’ I say, though I see immediately that it isn’t. A deep slash in his right shoulder, not the heart side, and another on the inside of his thigh. That one’s worse, the blood a slow swill that Brienne is trying to staunch. Dear gods.

Podrick’s nose is running and his eyes are foggy. ‘Sorry, my lady,’ he says, to Brienne, before he is aware of Sansa, taking his hand. ‘My ladies.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ Brienne says, in a rush, looking frantically around. ‘Get me a bloody healer for gods’ sake, don’t just stand there.’ Two more guards leave the room. She finds his other hand, she and Sansa either side of him. 

He’s paling by the moment. The sweat coming, dampening the edges of his hair. I’ve seen it enough times, on enough battlefields.

There’s a dull cracking sound, which is Clegane, punching the wall. 

‘Is Lady Arya alright?’ Podrick says, looking up at Brienne.

‘Yes, Podrick,’ Brienne says. ‘She’s fine. Unharmed. She’s just here.’

Arya is standing a little way from Podrick’s feet and out of his sight, her eyes wide, biting on her hand. Frozen. 

Podrick tries to move, to see her, and she takes another step back, away from him, shrinking into the shadows. The blacksmith boy is hovering at the door, quietly. 

Brienne is cutting away at his breeches with a carving knife.

‘Lie back, there’s a good fellow,’ I say, putting my metal hand on Podrick’s chest, grabbing another cloth to staunch the shoulder wound. It is turned red in an instant. ‘Best not to move.’ I hear the faintest whimper from him before he swallows. There’s a little blood in his mouth.

‘If you see Lord Tyrion,’ he says, struggling with his words. ‘Tell him I wish him well.’

‘Enough of that, now,’ I say, ignoring the fact that he’s lost all his colour and his blinks are becoming slower. 

‘Don’t die,’ says Arya in a small voice, from beyond his feet. 

The boy looks up at me as he hears her, and I see his feeling for her, plain as words. 

‘It’s alright, Podrick,’ Brienne is saying, and I’ve never heard so much panic in her voice, and so much motherliness. ‘Stay awake.’

Arya steps up to him, next to her sister. ‘Don’t die,’ she says again, as still and small as I’ve ever seen her.

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Podrick says to her, and shuts his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iron Maiden's ['Rainmaker'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enTPV_wkKbA) to soundtrack the fight scene. Or maybe that's what the Braavosi band were playing! I'm sure you can have metal at a masquerade ball? (Slayer's 'Raining Blood' is a better tune but the lyrics are not quite so useful...)


	23. I Can See Clearly Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my buddies in the USA. Crossing my fingers today. 
> 
> Ta to Editor ZoeSong!

**Jaime**

Never a more worthy squire. 

I’ve seen a lot of death, and reactions to death, but it took even me by surprise how everyone was after Podrick’s injuries. Clegane, raging black, and Brienne, her composure toppled for once. Sansa weeping and Arya frozen stiff. And myself, too, I suppose. Bloody furious. 

Well, Tyrion was right. No one more worthy. Not just as a squire, but as a young man, too. 

I see it here, with Sansa and Brienne either side of him again, and Arya a little way off, though there’s a sway to everyone’s movements now, in this cabin, as our ship sails out of Braavos and into the Narrow Sea.

‘It is not safe here.’ The Sealord had said with ten guards around him and the First Sword of Braavos still looking keenly around, his sword out. Shrieking still evident from various parts of the palace. ‘You must go. Immediately. You bring danger to this city and my people.’

Though Brienne had protested, guards helped get Podrick onto a stretcher, no doubt the worst thing for him, and we grabbed our belongings and left for the harbour.

‘We’re here, Podrick. We’re here,’ Sansa is saying in the cabin, one of the larger ones, dabbing a cloth along his brow. 

Brienne glances at me, a dull sense of sorrow and stoicism, before looking back at her squire. There are tight, short breaths coming from Podrick, through clamped teeth. His shoulder was cauterised in the palace kitchens and there’s an iron and leather tourniquet round the very top of his thigh. The boy’s bloody pale, and yet somehow still here. 

Gendry is here, too, staggering slightly as the boat pitches again. Arya’s blacksmith seems to have come along for the ride.

There’s a sound that makes us all look up, and it’s not Podrick’s struggle to keep breathing. A low, howling sound that isn’t quite the wind or the rain.

As we leave for the open sea, the Titan of Braavos is roaring. 

***

**Sandor**

_Will he be alright?_ Sansa says, holding a wooden bucket on her lap. She’s just finished throwing up again into it. Less seasickness, though the boat’s rolling like a lame horse, and more all the wine she drank in what already seems like another life. 

_Too early to say_ , I say, thinking that I’ve seen men die of less. Bringing a bit of hair that’s got vomit hanging on it away from her mouth.

 _He can’t die_ , she says. _He can’t. He’s helped all of us. So much_.

 _If that was the way the world worked, there’d only be good people_ , I say. _Let me look at your arm again_. She got caught by some woman’s dagger, some idiot guest panicking, but I can still thank the gods that it wasn’t one of those sellsword cunts. 

_I don’t want him to_ , she says, ignoring me, and as if her highborn will should be enough. 

Ay, I think, and if that was the way the world worked, your whole family would still be alive.

 _He’s better than all of us_ , she says.

That’s as maybe. _Your arm, Sansa_ , I say again. I bandaged it up before the Sealord kicked us out, strapped it up by her shoulder.

 _It’s fine_ , she says, pushing me away. _I want to pray. For him_. 

And I watch her close her eyes, watch a few holy words pass those lips, before she throws up again into the bucket.

***

**Jaime**

‘Podrick, you’re strong. I know you are. I’ve seen you fight.’

Unknown to her, I watch Brienne sit with Podrick, low candle flames just about holding their own against the swell of the boat. She’s hardly moved from him, and not slept. I think of all the times she complained about him, cooking a rabbit with its fur still on, not being able to ride a horse. 

‘You taught me to fight,’ I hear Podrick say, the words very slight. 

‘Yes, I did.’ Her voice is dreadfully gentle, but there’s strength to it. ‘And I don’t want to see that go to waste.’

‘I’m trying, my lady, but I’m just very tired.’

She puts a hand on his chest. The candlefire making shadows on her face. ‘Think of all that you would leave behind if you went now, Podrick. You’re not ready.’

His eyes flutter shut again.

Brienne bows her head.

***

**Arya**

You stand over him, listening to him breathe. There’s a rattle in his throat, like something’s caught, a bit of loose wire in the wind.

It smells bad in here. It smells of old blood, and piss, and vinegar, and the herbs that Morro found you before the boat actually left – you’d thought for a moment that he was coming with you, but he jumped onto the end of the landing harbour at the very last moment. 

It’s been half a day of sailing. You felt the boat turn to go south, past the west coast of Essos. You imagine Westeros sliding along, further to the east.

Podrick has a blanket over him, but you can still see his bright pale shoulder. You saw more of him, too, when they took his shirt off to put the hot iron to his skin, and his breeches to see to the other wound. You imagine all the blood that has gone from him, how it swelled over Brienne’s hand from his thigh, and imagine how someone could possibly keep going after losing that.

You look back up at his face, and he’s looking at you. You swallow. Want to run away.

‘Hello, my lady.’

He pushed you out of the way and took that man’s sword in his shoulder. In his thigh, before Jaqen or another Faceless Man killed the sellsword. 

‘Still here, then,’ you say, as lightly as you can manage.

He smiles, very weakly. A smile that doesn’t change his whole face like it would usually do. 

‘You saved me,’ you say, because you can’t help it. 

The ship creaks. ‘I’d do it again, my lady.’ He swallows, and it looks like the hardest thing in the world, and he closes his eyes in a way that you know means that he’s hurting like hells. 

You pick up the wooden cup. The sweetness of the wine barely masks how terrible it smells. You hold it to him. He looks at it. 

You put your hand under his head. He feels very hot. ‘I know,’ you say, and try and help him drink a little bit.

***

**Sandor**

Wolfgirl’s curled up on the boards next to bed of the squire, who’s not moving.

I put the flat of my hand over Podrick’s mouth, a tiny bit of space between them.

A voice behind me, from the floor. _Is he dead?_

There’s the faintest warmth from him on my palm. _Not yet,_ I say, as I move my hand away. _Get to a proper bed. Up. I’ll watch him_. 

_I hurt_ , Arya says, in a voice like a half-dead frog.

 _Where?_ I say. 

_My leg_ , she says, as she drags herself up, swaying. _It’s got worse again. And_ \- She lifts up her shirt, shows me her stomach, lower ribs. The bruises are just starting to show, a deep lavender spread of them. _A man fell on me_ , she says. 

_You’ll heal_ , I say, thanking the gods that it isn’t a stab-wound she’s been keeping quiet about. _Come on_. She whimpers, stumbles as the boat pitches, and I give up and carry her, hoisting her up in my arms and moving along the way to my room, where Sansa is. I dump her next to her sister on the bed I’ve been sleeping in. She can have the warmth.

Sansa shifts, opens her eyes a bit and sees Arya there, and moves up to her. Puts an arm over her. Arya’s asleep again already.

I leave them and go back to the boy.

***

**Jaime**

The land changes as we move further south. Distant mountains flattening, the horizon going from green to pale red. We must be passing Pentos. And therefore, more distantly and to the west, King’s Landing.

‘You still want to fuck her?’

Clegane’s behind me, arms folded, squinting up into the watery sun. I think we’re all still marvelling at a sky that doesn’t perpetually teem with water. 

I don’t grace his question with a response, and only turn back to the horizon. I know perfectly well who he means – as much as it’s an irritant, the man reads my mind a little too well sometimes. 

The answer’s no. Those sellswords can only have been Cersei’s. Again. She’s the only one who would really want to kill us all, I think, unless the Boltons have something to do with it. Yes, there I go, looking for a way not to blame her.

‘I think we should stop at Tyrosh,’ I say. ‘Or perhaps Lys. See what we can pick up for Podrick. Maybe get a healer on board while we dock.’

‘Think he’ll make it?’

‘He’s a determined lad.’ I half-turn to Clegane. ‘We’ll see.’

Clegane gives a small nod, and his body language alters as Sansa comes drifting unsteadily over the deck. She’s hampered by her strapped arm anyway, but it’s mostly the seasickness talking. Brienne’s had it too, coughing angrily overboard more than once. I can only thank my defiant stomach – perhaps watching my own hand being cut off strengthened my constitution somewhat.

‘My lady,’ I say. She’s terribly pale, almost blue. Or green. 

She gives Clegane a look that seems to tame him, even if subtly. Stands next to him. He wraps her blanket a little tighter around her shoulders. Doesn’t seem to care much if I see it, and right now, after this latest alarm, the intimacy of the gesture is peculiarly touching. She smiles at him, and he gives me a nod before leaving.

Together, we watch the waves and their white spittle. ‘People are always going to want to kill us, aren’t they?’ Sansa says, suddenly. Tactfully, she doesn’t say that by people, she means Cersei.

I turn to her. ‘My lady, I’ll always protect you. I hope that’s become clear. Even -’ I draw a deep breath, enough to send salt into my lungs. ‘From my sister.’ I won’t apologise for Cersei. 

She’s facing outwards, but casts me the merest, studying glance. She’s looking a little more queenly by the day, I swear. ‘Did you ever see this part of the world before?’ she says, in a less careful voice.

‘I’d never left Westeros before now.’ I squint into the sun. ‘At least I’m becoming a traveller in my latter years.’

‘What do you think she’ll be like?’

‘Hard to say,’ I say, hoping to the gods that madness doesn’t run in the family and that Danaerys Targaryen isn’t a raving lunatic. ‘Varys seems to have faith.’

‘Do you think Lord Tyrion is there?’

‘I don’t think so. I think that Varys would have communicated that, if he’d known at least.’

‘I hope you see your brother again,’ she says, and gazes at me unblinkingly. ‘I liked him, in the end.’ She’s more damned nobility than she has any need to have, given everything that’s happened to her.

‘And I hope you see your own, my lady,’ I say.

***

**Arya**

Gendry is staring out at some gulls, which are wheeling about as you sail closer to Lys. Their cries make you think of the ballroom, and all the screaming.

You feel bad. He came with you, because everything was rushed, and you told him to come, and he did. 

Now, you wonder what he is thinking. Whether he regrets it. He had set up a new life in Braavos, away from people who wanted to use him, and hurt him. A quiet, safe life. And now you have dragged him along into – well, whatever this will be. You’re fairly sure that it will never be safe.

You stand next to him. He hasn’t been sick, and nor have you, though you want to, all the time. 

‘Didn’t think I’d want to be on a boat again for a lot longer than this,' he says, glancing at you.

There are islands, faintly traced. The boat has sailed between Tyrosh, the Stepstones and the Grey Gallows. A sailor, a nice one with a few broken teeth, has pointed one grubby finger at the map you keep showing him. It was decided to sail on until Lys, rather than stop at Tyrosh – Sandor said that stopping at a place best known for Bleeding Harbours and having torture devices named after it was probably best steered past.

‘How’s your friend?’ he says.

You just shake your head. Podrick’s not really got much better yet. But he hasn’t got any worse. 

‘Why did you come?’ you say, carefully and quietly.

He clasps his fingers together, and you watch the blur of the white waves below them. ‘I wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet,’ he says.

***

**Sandor**

I hear Tarth a league off – she’d never be able to sneak up on a man, clunking around like she does. She coughs. 

_Ay_ , I say. _What is it?_

We set down in Lys, though not for long, right at the end of the harbour, and sent sailors ashore to do get more supplies. I’d have liked to see the place, or a bit of it, but it’s not our mission now, I suppose. Half of me wanted to fuck the lot of them, put Sansa under my arm and whisk her out into the city, disappear. Have her as mine forever. I know it won’t be so. Can’t be. Not now, not the way this is going. 

Tarth coughs again. _If you wouldn’t mind_ , she says, _Podrick’s in need of – well, there are some things he needs help with_. She scowls a bit, and has gone red as a cow’s arse in labour. _He didn’t give a damn when he was feverish, but now that he’s half-awake he refuses my services in more_ – another cough – _intimate matters_. 

I suppose she’d ask Lannister but for the lack of hand. _Fine_ , I say, and go to the lad’s cabin.

 _I’m sorry ser_ , he says, blinking. _I can’t move well on my own. Lady Brienne wanted to help me but it’s not proper_.

 _How many bloody times_ , I say, picking up the chamber pot by the bed. _No ser_.

Bit more colour in the lad’s cheek. Well, he’s not blue, anyway. _Sorry ser_ , he says, very quietly.

I move him enough so that he can shit, and look out of the tiny window. 

_I ate some broth_ , he says afterwards, with as much pride as him telling me he killed Ser Mandon Moore. 

The sailors brought bone broth as well as herbs, and a healer came on board to look at the boy. All paid for by his own whoring coin, so it was good for something. The boy still looks like the Stranger’s just hanging around outside the door. Bloody exhausted. Shivering.

 _Good lad_ , I say. _And you’ll keep eating it_.

 _Is Lady Arya well?_ he says. _And Lady Sansa?_

_Ay, and they’ve both been at your side half the time_ , I say. 

His look is like a near-drowned puppy that’s just been rescued. 

_Get some rest_ , I say. _Don’t die._

 _Ay, ser_ , he says, and goes back to sleep.

***

**Jaime**

‘ _Gods_.’

Brienne’s become rather more confident in bed since that first time. Cersei was too, but there was a viciousness in her that I’d not realised until now. Brienne is bloody strong – she’s frankly terrifying sitting astride me, eyes flaming – but there’s a practical, explorative side to her. She demands that I move a little here, slow down there, all the while staring into the middle distance as if listening for wardrums far off, shifting herself until she finds the right angle. I’m gripped in the vice of her legs and her arms, and can hardly breathe, but it’s the best sort of torture, before she explodes, good as a warrior with their blood up, falling on me and trembling and saying my name, which is a rather beautiful thing to hear when I know I’ve just shattered her, when in other ways I’m shattered myself. 

‘I like it when you invoke them one by one,’ I say, as she climbs off me. ‘Your voice keeps getting higher as you get towards the Stranger. I’m sure he’s very glad to hear how high you shriek his name.’

‘Shut up,’ she says, but as she looks over she gives the quickest flash of a grin, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s delightful.

Brienne’s seasickness is over, and Podrick is making enough progress for her to actually come to bed more than once. 

We stare at the rocking ceiling. ‘Dragons,’ she says, from out of nowhere.

I roll over and put my stump on her stomach. Cersei would have had it cut off to the shoulder if I’d ever done that. ‘Well, you’ve fought with a bear,’ I say.

‘I was losing to the bear, as you well remember.’

The dragons, if they truly exist, are getting nearer. We’ve shunted past all the islands, dropped into Lys and have spent the last days in the Summer Sea. It’s been good sailing, smooth water and quiet. Time to think, as Westeros slides further and further away. Time to watch Brienne. Time to try not to think about my sister. 

Arya, when she’s not on her bedside vigil with Podrick, plays cards with Gendry, with a bloody confused look on her face much of the time. The blacksmith’s been a help - rather fashioning himself as a replacement squire, while the usual one is out of action.

Sansa joins them, or tends to Podrick, or spends her time close to Clegane’s side, as if she’s stuck to him with fish-glue. There’s a fierce look on his face much of the time, and so I suppose the man still hasn’t brought up marriage. I’m going to have to propose for him soon.

As for me – I think on what I said to Father, once. I’ll never marry. Never return to Casterly Rock. Never have children. 

And I look at Brienne as she pulls the covers over us both, and wonder. At least about one of them.

‘Godsdammit,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Brienne gets up, and vomits into the chamber pot.

***

**Arya**

You can’t sleep. 

The sea’s been bumpier again, since passing through the Lands of Long Summer, which were lots of single stuck-up rocks with clouds of birds around them. Slaver’s Bay sounds pretty nasty, and the sea’s making it live up to its name. At night, the bed tips and you have rolled out of it more than once and banged your knees.

You looked in on Podrick before you came out on deck. The rattle in his breath has gone. His cabin still smells pretty horrible, but Brienne says that he may be over the worst. And seeing as she always thinks of the shittiest outcome for everything, you hope to believe it, just a little. 

You do like him. Podrick. You’ve spent ages looking at him, on the boat – you could, because he has been basically dead. Looking at his eyebrows and his forehead and his shoulders and – other bits, when he was too unconscious to know any better. You get to look at Gendry, too, all the time, though not quite so much, as he’s always awake and he’s sharing with one of the sailors at night. You don’t know who you’ve looked at more.

‘I’m not the only one who can’t sleep, then.’ Sandor’s behind you, in his shirt and breeches. How you didn’t hear him you’re not sure.

‘Why can’t you?’ Probably Sansa was kicking him in her sleep, like she did to you all the time. 

He makes a grumbly noise as he breathes out. ‘Getting close, that’s all.’

‘Bet you never thought you’d be all the way out here, when we were going through all those burned villages.’

‘Nope.’

I bet he didn’t think a lot of things, you think, like how he is now my sister’s whore or whatever he is, and how he is basically friends with Jaime Lannister and how he helps a squire shit and wash.

‘Do you really think there’ll be -’

‘If you say dragons, I’m going to chuck you overboard.’

So you don’t. Instead, you both sit on the bench in the middle of the boat, and watch the day begin to come up, like someone is lifting a lid on the horizon. You think of what will happen there, making friends with the Targaryen queen, meeting her dragons – you hiss the word in your head, if not out loud – and going back to Westeros and killing everyone, and hopefully seeing Jon again, some day.

‘Well, you’re going to find out,’ he says, even though neither of you have said anything for ages. 

‘Find out what?’

He nods, slightly to the right. 

There, in the low watery dawn light, you see it. The shadow of something huge, above a jagged line of city, soaring to a point. A pyramid. 

Meereen.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Well, you can probably guess what the next fic in this series will be called... I promise a VERY SHORT ONE! Just a few chapters, honest! HONEST!
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> WOLFGIRL IN BRAAVOS THEME-TIME RADIO HOUR:  
>  Leaving with optimism! [Jimmy Cliff's 'I Can See Clearly Now'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrHxhQPOO2c). LOVE TO EVERYONE!


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